Guns and Ships
by Evil Author Overlords
Summary: When John wakes up on a boat with no recollection of how he got there and only accompanied by Sherlock Holmes and a bunch of strangers, he's a bit surprised. But as it turns out, getting home is a bit of a challenge. John has to learn to adapt and survive with the people around him while at the same time figuring out who could be behind this "game." Previously titled "Survivors"
1. Chapter 1

**Heyo! Fluffy here. Surprisingly, this is my first solo FanFic on this account. Queue betas, but a good 95% of this is pure Fluffy brainpower. Now it's a real shame that I can only list this as a crossover between two fandoms, because along with Sherlock and Doctor Who, you'll see there's a fair amount of Supernatural, Marvel, Merlin, and a couple others (EDIT 4/10/18: Those others include Hamilton, Dan and Phil, and Jacksepticeye. The Marvel boys are Loki, Thor, and Spider-Man. Yes, it does sound like a lot, but hey, Infinity War is gonna pull it off, right?). That does seem like a lot, but I like to think I'm competent enough to juggle all of them. But you can be the judge of that.**

 **You'll soon see which universe this takes place in. Or not. _Muahahaha_.**

 **Feedback is appreciated! Constructive criticism is also encouraged, even if it's a question about a plot inconsistency or a small grammatical er** **ror. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

It was dark. That was the first thing he realized. He blinked his eyes to make sure they were open, but the blackness remained. The second thing that he found out was that he was trapped. Well, not _trapped_ per se, but definitely confined. His legs were pressed up against his chest, for any attempt to move them would just result in them bumping against a wall. Reaching above him, he felt his hand hit the low ceiling, one that he would hit his head against if he tried sitting up. He was in a box.

That's when the panic began to settle in. Adrenaline surged through his veins, and despite his kicking, the wall remained firm. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He'd been in situations like this before. First thing's first: reality check.

 _My name is John Hamish Watson. I was an army doctor in Afghanistan. My wife's name is Mary, and we're expecting a baby girl. My best friend is Sherlock Holmes._

John would have facepalmed if his elbow could maneuver. The _idiot_ Sherlock Holmes. Was this some kind of experiment?

John frowned. Sherlock was in the middle of investigating the Moriarty issue; he only messed with John's tea when he was bored and had nothing to do. He _was_ still investigating, right? Was it still Thursday? The last thing he remembered, he had been on the phone with Sherlock regarding the criminal mastermind's "return," two days after his five-minute banishment. John furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't remember anything after that. . .

"Sherlock?" He tried to call, but his voice came out a strained whisper. How long had he not used it?

John cleared his throat. " _Sherlock!?_ " he tried again, louder.

He wasn't sure whether he would be more relieved or furious if he heard a response, but he didn't have to ponder the question long.

"John? Is that you, John Watson?"

John's heart thudded in relief upon hearing the muffled reply. "Sherlock? Where are you? What the _bloody hell_ is going on? Why am I in a box?"

The floor shifted below him. "We're on a boat," Sherlock responded with a pause. "And I believe I am under you. Also in a box," he added dryly.

"But _why?_ "

"Haven't the slightest. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Talking on the phone with you," John answered. "What about you?"

"Same thing. John, I need you to shift around, and look for a hole in your crate. Any source of light."

John shifted to his back, and almost winced when he saw the light that came through the hole his side was previously pressed up against. He tried to move to get his face closer to the hole, rocking the crate and making loud creaking noises in the process. When he finally looked through the hole, he relayed his observations to Sherlock.

"You're right. We're definitely on a boat. There's a. . . I see a railing, and the ocean. I think I see. . . There might be land in the distance. We're going towards it. Oh, and there's other crates too. Somewhere between ten and-"

John broke off. A low moan sounded beside him, seeming to come from behind his left wall.

"Ten and what?" Sherlock prompted.

"Shut up and listen," John snapped.

The left wall jerked, and the moan came again. "Hello?" John said slowly. "Is anyone there?"

" _Ahhhhhgg. ._ ."

John frowned. "Hello?"

From below him, John heard Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "John, our current situation needs to be assessed much more than some ship turbulence you may be experie-"

The wall jerked again, but much more violently, followed by a confused, "What the hell-? Dean? _Dean!? Cas!_ "

"John, apparently I was wrong," Sherlock began. "It's not turbulence; you have a neighbor. And ask him, if he would be so kind, to _shut up!_ I can't hear myself think."

The wall abruptly stopped moving. "Excuse me?" the voice asked, seemingly offended. "Who are you?"

"American?" Sherlock commented. "Mid thirties? Co-workers and or close friends/family members who go by the name of Dean and Cas? Works for law enforcement, perhaps? Interesting," he mused.

The other voice was silent. "And you are?"

"Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective," he announced, voice smug. "The other one—that's John. He's a short army doctor with an unhealthy tendency to draw in psychopaths and state the obvious."

The strange voice gave a short huff of laughter. "Right. I'm Superman. I save people for a living and wear a red cape."

John could practically _hear_ Sherlock frowning as he deciphered the sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, did I did say something amusing?"

"Nevermind," the mysterious American replied. "What do you want with me?"

" _You?_ " Sherlock scoffed. "I want nothing from nobody. Unless- John, how likely is it that Mrs. Hudson would be here? I could go for a cup of tea."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock," he warned.

" _Fine_. You are in a box. I am in a box. John is in a box. There are other boxes; contents which I am not sure of, but at this point I would not be surprised if it were people. We are all on a boat. We are heading to a strange distant land. Can your brain process that?"

" _Sherlock_."

John heard a low, frustrated groan from below him. "Answer me this, Superman," Sherlock demanded. "What's the last thing you remember?"

The American hesitated. "You're right. I am in law enforcement. FBI. My partner—Dean—we had just wrapped up a case, and we were at a bar around eleven PM. I remember- I remember closing the bar door, to exit, then I. . ." he trailed off. "Then I woke up here."

"Hello? Is anybody out there? _Doctor!?_ " John's reply died on his lips when he heard the new voice. It was a woman's, and definitely British. It seemed to come from the wall to John's right.

"Do you need a doctor? Are you injured?" John called back.

"No- I- not _that_ kind of doctor," the woman stuttered. "But what the bloody-"

" _Donna?_ " a distant voice yelled in response.

" _DOCTOR!_ " John flinched at the volume of her voice. In response, John heard footsteps thudding across the deck, until they stopped right next to him.

"Donna? Hold on, this may take a while to get the nails out. . ."

"Take your time. Don't mind me, rotting away in here!" Donna responded scathingly.

A high-pitched buzzing noise resonated through John's crate, and he heard the small _clang_ of the nails as they unattached from the box and fell to the ship's floor. After the fourth _clang_ , the ceiling was lifted away. John instinctively brought his hand to his eyes to block the sudden sunlight, but quickly removed it when he noticed the stranger standing next to the crate.

He wore a brown pinstripe shirt and pants, covered by a long light brown trenchcoat. His eyes were a chocolate-brown. His shoes were red sandshoes, and his brown hair, for lack of a better word, was very _sticky-uppy._

"Oh," the stranger pursed his lips as John pushed himself to his feet. "Wrong crate."

The banging from the crate next to him only confirmed his statement, along with the exasperated repeats of " _Doctor_."

John noticed the man pull a small, thin silver device from one of his many pockets and begin to point it at the nails on Donna's box. He took little note of it, however, as he pushed away his old crate and began to work at the nails on Sherlock's.

Sherlock and Donna sat up at the same time, and cast each other a quick glance before getting out. Donna was a rather ordinary looking woman, aside from her ginger hair. Sherlock brushed off his dark overcoat, and inhaled deeply.

"Definitely the ocean," he stated. Sherlock then dashed over to the boat's railing and leaned over, frowning.

"What is it?" John wondered.

"This ship we're on," Sherlock said, "it has no name. No flag, either. Nothing obvious to indicate where it came from. As of now, all I know for sure about it is that it's some kind of small freighter ship."

Sherlock spun around to face the trenchcoated man. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective," he said, holding out his hand. The trenchcoated man raised an eyebrow, but shook Sherlock's hand in a firm grip.

"Sherlock Holmes, eh? I'm the Doctor. I'm- well, I do lots of different things. This is my companion, Donna Noble," the Doctor introduced himself, and gestured to Donna.

" _The_ Doctor, hmm? Oh, right!" Sherlock pointed at John. "That's John Watson. He blogs my life because-"

John cleared his throat. "I can introduce myself, thanks," he said curtly. "John Watson, former soldier." He held out his hand, which the Doctor shook.

"Um, hello? Anyone mind getting me out of this thing?" a muffled voice called.

John whipped around, suddenly remembering his crate neighbor, Superman. The Doctor was quicker though, pulling out the strange silver device and holding it against the nails. _Wait- is it_ glowing _blue?_

The nails fell out, and the lid was pushed off from the inside. The American quickly stood up, clearly eager to get out of the confined box. Though he didn't exactly give off a Superman vibe, he was super tall. Roughly a foot taller than John, and if he weren't, well, _John_ , he'd probably be intimidated. His hair was long and brown, parted down the middle.

"Thanks," he said with a nod.

"That device," Sherlock began, pointing to the silver object in the Doctor's hand. "What is it, exactly?"

"Oh, just a thing I picked up with my. . . other things."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but didn't push it. _For now._

"Sorry for interrupting," Donna broke in, "but do _any_ of you have any idea what the _bloody hell_ is going on!?"

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. As much of a genius Sherlock was, he couldn't have gathered enough information about the situation to figure out why they were here, or even _how_ to begin with.

"It seems most likely that we have been drugged," Sherlock concluded. "Unless you remember how you arrived here. Doctor? Donna?" Sherlock turned towards the companions.

They briefly looked at each other before simultaneously shaking their heads.

Superman cleared his throat. "Let's split up, and look around. We'll see if we can find anything helpful. But first, we should open these other crates." He gestured to the other crates tied to the floor, surrounding their former ones. "Perhaps we're not the only people who were in those things. Or maybe there'll be supplies."

"You do that," Sherlock told him. "But I have other interests. After all, this is a ship, but there's no Captain's Quarters I can see." He paused dramatically, making sure their attention was all on him. Sherlock opened his mouth, but the Doctor beat him to it.

"So who's piloting it?"

* * *

 **So how'd I do?**


	2. Chapter 2

**This is probably the quickest update I've ever done. It's probably due to the fact that I already had this chapter typed out, heh heh. I have to thank all of you for reviewing; I wasn't expecting feedback that fast! To ASerrenn, Donna's my favorite companion to the Tenth Doctor, and this story would have been incomplete without her sass. Coincidentally, she's narrating this chapter, so even more Donna for you!**

 **I probably should have mentioned I'll be switching between narrators. And sorry, MysteryGirl7Freak, but I'm not familiar with the Librarians. But I hope the characters introduced make up for it!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Donna sighed.

Today was a very sigh-worthy day, and it wasn't even past nine in the morning, if she was any good at judging the position of the sun. She supposed she was lucky. She had the Doctor, after all. If she had to be stuck or stranded somewhere unknown with one person, she would have chosen the Doctor in a heartbeat.

However, Donna wasn't exactly in an optimistic mood. The sun's rays warmed her neck, and not in a way that was pleasant. The Doctor was lucky enough to find his sonic in his pocket, but does she get anything with _her?_ Of course not. Whoever put her here didn't even bother with her bag she packed in the TARDIS. As unpredictable as the Doctor was, at least _he'd_ give her a short heads-up for an appropriate clothing change.

But _no_. Here she was, in the middle of the ocean—which may not have even been _Earth's_ ocean—surrounded by the Doctor and three strangers, attempting to loosen nails on crates with a penny she had found on the floor. And it didn't help that the Doctor went at least three times her speed with his sonic, already revealing the content of two boxes to be a large supply of rice and some wound-up rope.

Donna grinned in satisfaction when she managed to pry the fourth and final nail off the lid. She mustered up her strength and pushed the lid aside, and peered in the crate. She nearly jumped back in surprise, letting out an audible gasp.

The Doctor's head snapped up. "Donna?" he said, pocketing his sonic. He quickly walked towards her, followed by the man who claimed to be John Watson. They glimpsed in the crate, and appeared to be equally shocked.

A pale young man lay in the box, his legs folded against his chest and eyes closed. His raven hair was wet and plastered against his forehead. He wore a worn blue shirt with a red bandanna-scarf _thing_ around his neck. He was a bit scrawny, but otherwise physically healthy—aside from his unmoving chest.

"Is he- is he dead?" Donna asked softly.

John didn't say anything, but pressed his fingers against the young man's neck. He frowned after about ten seconds, before pressing his hands against the man's chest and giving a sudden, hard push. John then turned his attention to the mouth, took a deep breath, and pressed his own against the man's.

He repeated the CPR process for roughly half a minute, and just when Donna thought that it was too late, the young man bolted upright and coughed, water spewing out of his mouth.

The Doctor blinked. "I thought you were a soldier."

"Army doctor, actually," John corrected with a slight grin. The Doctor raised his eyebrows, impressed.

"Where am I?" the man asked weakly. "Am I- did I die? Wait, no, I'm breathing-" he turned to John, pale blue eyes full of a strange mixture between awe and horror. "Who are you? What did you do to me?"

Donna's heart twisted in sympathy. He was clearly a young adult, maybe early twenties, late teens. How could one so young get tangled up in _this?_

"That," John explained, "was CPR. You weren't quite dead yet. I'm John Watson." John offered him his hand. The young man hesitated, but took the hand to pull himself up, declaring, "Thank you. I'm Merlin."

John frowned. " _Merlin?_ "

"Um, yes. . ."

" _Merlin? Sherlock Holmes?_ " Donna whispered to the Doctor in hushed undertones. "What is this?"

The Doctor shook his head. "I'm not sure. Just go along with it until we can figure it out." Turning to Merlin, he clasped his hands together, saying, "Well, hello! I'm the Doctor, and that's Donna. How'd you end up here on this fine morning?"

"Doctor?" Merlin frowned. "Like, physician? I- I don't know. I was on a hunting trip in the woods with some, uh, friends. Then I woke up here. There's- there's nothing in between."

"Hey!"

Donna turned to the source of the voice to see the tall, long-haired American that Sherlock and John had addressed as Superman coming around the corner, two people following him wearily. Both were men. One was wearing a shirt that looked as if it had been white once, and he had blond bangs dangling on his forehead. When he spotted Merlin, his eyes lit up with delight.

"Merlin!" The blond dashed towards Merlin, arms outstretched. But upon realizing his arms were almost around him, the stranger stiffened and awkwardly cleared his throat. "You're here too," he stated bluntly. "And you're not dead."

"You're observant today," Merlin replied dryly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but slapped Merlin on the shoulder. Donna frowned. Men always puzzled her with their interactions, with one thing implying that they were best friends, but the next second they could be mistaken as enemies. Donna's thoughts were interrupted with a loud, "What the _fock_ is going on?"

Everyone froze. Donna turned to the speaker. He seemed around the same age as Merlin and Arthur, maybe a bit older. His clothes were much more modern, however, and the top of his hair was dyed green. He had light stubble and light blue eyes.

"Sorry, but _seriously? What?_ This is by far the most vivid, messed up dream I have ever had. And I've had some messed up dreams." His accent was clearly Irish. Donna furrowed her eyebrows as he began pacing.

"I mean, I recognize you." The Irishman pointed to the tall American. "You're the moose one, um. . . Sam! Yeah, Sam Winchester. And you're the Doctor- Ten or Eleven, I don't fockin' know. . . Oh, and you're Watson." His eyes skimmed over Donna, not even attempting to guess who she might be. Suddenly, his eyes widened. "The superwholock, they. . . I just thought they hijacked _Tumblr_ posts. When did they upgrade to YouTuber minds? Mark? Felix?" he called, facing the various boxes. "Ya in there? Wait. . ." he turned to Arthur and Merlin.

"You guys aren't superwholock. Who the hell are _you?_ And if I'm dreaming—which, of course, I have to be—why can't I control it? Why am I still here?"

There was a long, awkward pause. Everyone stared at the Irishman, eyes wide. Suddenly, Superman—no, _Sam_ —grabbed the stranger's arm and twisted it behind him, and pinned him against the mast. He gasped in a mixture of pain and shock.

"How do you know that!?" Sam demanded. " _Who are you!?_ "

"Seán McLoughlin! Er. . . Most people know me as Jack," he explained quickly, wincing. "Or Jacksepticeye." Sam twisted his arm further, and Jack cried out.

"I _said_ how do you know who I am?" growled Sam.

"The internet, goddamn it! Tumblr!"

"He's telling the truth."

They all whipped around to see Sherlock at the top of a small set of stairs, looking evenly at Jacksepticeye.

"I found no captain, or what is controlling the ship, for that matter," Sherlock announced. "However, I think we may have more pressing matters to deal with first."

Sherlock jerked his head, and two figures approached from behind him. Donna's mouth dropped, unable to believe her eyes.

On either side of Sherlock, stood a man in what appeared to be colonial attire and. . . Thor?

* * *

 **So this was originally written as a kind of spoof for my friends and a way to practice characterization, which explains the wide range of characters. Then I formed a plot and major character dynamics and thought "Hey, I could make something (hopefully) pretty cool out of this." More characters will be introduced in the next chapter, and a few are indeed from the "real world" like Jacksepticeye.**

 **Buckle up, kids. Things are gonna get pretty wild.**


	3. Chapter 3

**For some reason I'm being super speedy with the updates. I can't promise how long this'll last. Now-, to Riley Wolffang: Thank you! Jack's just really fun to write :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

Merlin liked to consider himself an open-minded person. Living in a gray area; standing on the fence in a culture where magic was seen in black and white, plus being a man-servant to a king as reckless as Arthur. . . Well, expecting the unexpected was practically in the job description. However, this was a situation the young sorcerer's mind simply could not comprehend, no matter how hard he tried.

He'd seen magic before. Heck, he's been practicing it for over half a decade by now. He's seen a lot when it came to the magical art. But this floor beneath his feet wasn't cobble, carpet, _or_ wood. It was hard like metal, but the light reflected off of it almost like water. He knew the thing he was on was a boat, but _how_ something of this size actually stayed buoyant in the water was beyond him. And the clothes of the people around him. . . he didn't know where to start with _their_ atrocity.

Perhaps this was an illusion. He'd read about some spells powerful enough to trick the mind like this. But something didn't add up. Arthur was here, and Arthur was real. The shoulder-slap may have been brief and seemingly insignificant, but Merlin remembered Arthur's hand giving his shoulder a quick squeeze, as if to assure himself that his friend was really there. He and Arthur had exchanged a long look after that, both silently agreeing that no matter how this situation played out, they would make sure that they got each other out alive.

So no, this wasn't an illusion. And Merlin didn't feel any kind of magical vibe coming off from anything around him. Looks like he and Arthur would have to go through this the old fashioned way.

"Sherlock!" John called to the man in the dark clothes at the top of the stairs. "How- this can't be possible- they're _not-_ " John stuttered, waving his arms in emphasis of whatever point that he seemed very unable to articulate.

Merlin liked John. He'd decided that early on. He had never met the man before, but anyone who felt obligated to save a stranger's life just based on the fact that they were a fellow human being was alright in his book.

 _But am I_ really _a stranger to John?_ Merlin pondered. After all, John _did_ seem familiar with Merlin's name, even a bit surprised. Could he be a druid? Druids knew of Merlin. Could this "CPR" be some kind of druid magic?

Merlin's thoughts were interrupted when a man stepped in front of Sherlock, demanding: "Which of you is the leader of this assembly?" Merlin frowned, studying him. He was very large, to say the least; his sheer size could only be dwarfed by Percival. He had short blond hair and outfit that _somewhat_ looked like the knights', but the most interesting thing about him had to be the strange eyepatch that covered his right eye.

Everyone exchanged uncertain glances. Sam released Jacksepticeye, who stumbled forward with a gasp of relief. Low murmuring started up from small groups, and Arthur whispered to Merlin, "Would announcing I'm the ruler of a powerful kingdom and offering my leadership advice be better or worse for our chances of survival?"

"Worse, definitely. The 'leadership advice' alone is bound to get you killed, and there's no doubt you'll bring me along for the ride," Merlin said, trying to keep his expression deadly serious. Arthur thwacked him upside the head, somehow discreetly.

"That's enough from you," he ordered.

"I apologize, your clotpo- I mean, Majesty."

Arthur glared at him. In the corner of his eye, Merlin noticed the Doctor climbing on top of one of the boxes, calling out "Excuse me!" and "If you could listen for a moment-" and "Why is it always a face that they ignore?"

Arthur began talking again, but Merlin wasn't listening. He was picking up bits and pieces from the conversations around him, all of them suddenly crescendoing to rise over the others' volumes.

"They're _fictional_ , Sherlock! How are they here!?"

"What do you mean you haven't heard of King George? Clearly you're not American, but. . . he's King George!"

"How fockin' drunk am I?"

"If you could just turn your attention towards me for a bit-"

"I'm working on that!"

"I assure you I have no recollection of this king you speak of."

"Remember the Hound of Baskerville? Those drugs? Are you also seeing a Thor with an eyepatch?"

"'Don't drink before bed,' she said. 'It focks up your dreams,' she said. Well what if I _want-_ "

" _WILL EVERYBODY JUST SHUT. UP!_ "

Silence fell instantly and completely. Everyone's eyes turned toward Donna, then to the Doctor who was standing on the crate beside her.

"Thank you, Donna," he said, clearly exasperated.

"Right," the Doctor clapped his hands together, and shifted his weight on his feet. "Look, we're all confused, and I know waking up somewhere with no memory of how you got there can be quite frightening." Merlin began nodding in agreement, and noticed everyone else doing the same.

"We're all smart, capable people who can get through this, but only if we work together and make a game plan. I don't know any of you, and you don't know me. You have no reason to trust me. But please, believe me when I tell you that it's in my best interests to find out what is going on, and how we can all get back home. But in the meantime, we need to assess the situation.

"There may be other people in these boxes, or different helpful supplies. We should split up and open as many crates as we can, and report back here in twenty minutes. Regardless if you find a friend, enemy, stranger, or someone you didn't even believe was real, bring them back here and we'll decide what to do then. Any questions? Are we agreed?" The Doctor's eyes skimmed the small gathering.

"I have a question," Arthur declared. "Who made you- _mmmpf!_ " He was cut off when Merlin's hand slammed over his mouth.

"Agreed," Merlin confirmed. The Doctor nodded.

"Good. Twenty minutes. Allons-y!" He hopped off the crate and sped off, Donna following close behind. Soon, the group was scattered.

Arthur shoved Merlin's hand away. "When was the last time you washed those?" he wondered, cringing. Merlin rolled his eyes.

"C'mon. Let's go box hunting."

"Oh, so you're giving me the orders now, are you?"

"Wouldn't dream of it. That was merely a. . . _suggestion_ ," Merlin said over his shoulder, batting his eyes in sarcastic submission, for his unrelenting pace contradicted his words.

* * *

"Box hunting" as it turned out, was just as boring as it sounded. He and Arthur would pry off the nails, look in the crate, and have so far found a large fishing net, towels, and a large amount of matches. He would occasionally see other people filter by, working on their own boxes, but they deliberately avoided eye contact, and would quickly walk away when they finished. Merlin added "awkward" to the already huge list of words he's compiled to describe this experience.

It was ten minutes in, and Arthur and him had just finished getting the nails out of their fifth box. They lifted the lid off, and he fumbled it in his grasp in surprise when he saw what was in the box.

Merlin knew the Doctor told them to acknowledge the possibility of more people, but that didn't prevent Merlin's gasp of alarm as he stumbled and dropped the lid onto the ground, causing a rather loud crash. Arthur sighed, and ran his hand down his face.

"Why does it not surprise me. . ." Arthur trailed off, shaking his head. Merlin bit his lip, but didn't comment as he leaned over the box and peered at the figure inside. He was a man, with short, dark hair, and a long, almost black overcoat. _What was with these coats?_ Merlin wondered, recalling that the Doctor and the man John addressed as Sherlock were dressed similarly.

He and Arthur exchanged a glance, Arthur looking pointedly down at the man inside. "He's breathing. . . Should we wake him up?"

Merlin shrugged. "It'd be rude not to. . ."

Arthur stepped back, and when Merlin made no moves, gestured with his hand to the unconscious man. "You could do it, you royal prat. . ." Merlin muttered under his breath, but shook the man nonetheless. "Um, hello? Are you alright?"

The man's pale blue eyes flickered open. "Are you an angel?" he asked.

"Uhhhhh. . ."

"Cat got your tongue?" He smirked, and pushed himself to a sitting position. Merlin mentally noted how similar his accent was to Sam's.

As Merlin fumbled for words, the man patted his back, and said, "Nah, I'm just kidding. Can't be dead. . ." The man stood, carefully stepping out of his box. "Captain Jack Harkness, at your service," he said with a wink, offering his hand. Merlin looked nervously back at Arthur.

"Merlin," he managed to get out, shaking it quickly before bringing his hand back to his side.

"Captain?" Arthur spoke up with interest.

"Yup. And you are?"

"Arthur," he said curtly.

Captain Jack whistled. "Arthur and Merlin," he pondered. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't those the names of a medieval king and sorcerer? Like Arthur and his knights of the round table?"

Merlin stiffened.

"Oh, so you've heard of me?" Arthur straightened. "I didn't think the news of my kingship would travel that fast. And-" Arthur broke off, narrowing his eyes. "Wait, did you say Merlin was a _sorcerer? This_ Merlin?" Arthur let out a laugh.

"What? I could have an extra set of uncharted skills," Merlin said defensively, trying to hide the worry in his tone.

"Right," Arthur slapped his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

Captain Jack frowned. "What year is it?"

For some reason, the oddity of the question didn't even strike him. "It's-" Merlin froze, eyes widening. He recalled flipping through the back of his spell book just yesterday- well, if yesterday even _was_ yesterday. The spell had been very complicated and difficult, and it was highly advised against performing it. It had only been done once before; it was a time travel spell, meant to bend the time stream and throw the caster forwards or backwards in time to a destination of their choosing. Merlin knew for sure that he hadn't used it, but if it was possible to send someone else instead of the caster. . . Merlin closed his eyes, not wanting to think about what Morgana could do to Camelot while he and Arthur were gone with no way back.

"Merlin?" Arthur called, snapping him out of his thoughts. "You look pale. Well, paler than usual."

"Time travel," Merlin murmured. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows.

"What?"

Merlin glanced at Captain Jack, surprised to find the man nodding. "It's possible," the captain confirmed. "This isn't my first time crawling out of a box to find myself in a new year. And I'm not even talking about that January first a couple years back." Jack offered a smile, but when neither of the men reciprocated, he dropped it. "Just saying I've time traveled before," he said, considerably less enthusiastic.

"So this is some kind of magic?" Arthur wondered. Captain Jack raised an eyebrow.

"It's really more of a science."

"We should probably hurry," Merlin realized. "We have about five minutes until we have to meet the others."

"Others?" Captain Jack grinned. "This should be fun."

Merlin turned towards the other unopened boxes around them, jumping in surprise when he saw Sam coming around the corner, and gulped when the tall man's eyes fixed on them. Although Sam didn't _seem_ aggressive, he couldn't forget how quickly he had subdued Jacksepticeye—whatever kind of name that was—and how he knew exactly what to do to get the green-haired man to talk. And Merlin couldn't exactly use magic to get himself out of a headlock, not with Arthur standing two feet away.

"Merlin and Arthur, right? Look, there's this box I'm working on, and I think there's a person inside. But- well, there was a crate carrying some kind of glue on top of it, and there was a crack. . ."

Arthur frowned and asked, "What is _glue?_ " at the same time as Captain Jack winced and commented, "Yikes."

"Anyway, I could use a hand."

Captain Jack and Arthur simultaneously stood, following Sam to the crate. Merlin nervously bit the inside of his cheek, but trailed after them. The crate seemed rather normal from a distance, but upon closer inspection, it was clear that there was some kind of substance coating a portion of the lid.

"I already got two nails out," Sam explained. "It's just that the spills are on opposite sides, and I can't pry the lid off."

Captain Jack, Sam, Merlin and Arthur arranged themselves on the four corners of the box. Merlin slid his fingers under the lid and heaved as hard as he could when Sam gave the signal. To his surprise, the box was lifted with the lid. _What_ is _glue?_ he pondered.

Merlin quickly glanced around to make sure the others were focused on their own sides before narrowing his eyes at the nail, concentrating on using his magic to lodge it free from the adhesive substance surrounding it. When it was loose enough, he turned his attention to the other nail. He barely had to loosen it when the box suddenly broke apart from the lid, crashing to the deck. Merlin nearly fell back in surprise as the others stumbled from the sudden weight release.

He heard a moan from the box after its collision with the floor. Sam was right. It was a person. He had medium-length golden-brown hair, not much shorter than Sam's own. He also sported strange clothing like most of the others, which covered his rather short figure. He had a scratch on his cheek which was quickly gathering blood, and he gingerly moved his hand to feel it as his eyes blinked open.

Merlin looked back at Arthur to see his own curiosity and confusion reflected back at him, but his gaze shifted to Sam. Sam's eyes were wide, as if he had just seen a ghost. He was stiff and breathing heavily, and his mouth was partly open from shock. Quickly, he took control of himself and clenched his jaw shut, staring at the man with a storm in his eyes. "You son of a bitch," he gritted out, grabbing the man by his shirt collar and yanking him upward.

The stranger's eyes widened. "How-?"

"Fix this," Sam demanded, gesturing around him. "I'm not participating in any more of your games. Next time—and there will be a next time—just stay dead."

In unison, Arthur and Captain Jack moved forward, each grabbing one of Sam's arms and forcibly hauling him off the stranger. "Remember what the Doctor said," Arthur grunted to Sam as he and the captain struggled to hold him in place. Sam went slack and took a deep breath. The two men exchanged a glance before letting go of Sam and standing protectively in front of the stranger, who still sat dumbfounded in his crate.

Slowly, the stranger blinked. "I don't think we're all on the same page here."

Sam's head snapped up. "What?"

"For starters, I was dead—well, as far as you're concerned—but that was pretty dead. But you- you don't look dead. So I'm assuming you've been in better shape than me?"

Sam glared at the stranger, who shrugged. "Mostly better shape? Give or take a death or two, with you Winchesters. Speaking of which—hey Bonnie, where's Clyde?"

"Cut the crap, Gabriel. What's going on?"

"A lot of things, apparently."

Arthur cleared his throat. "Hold on, did I hear you say you _died?_ " Arthur turned away from Sam to face Gabriel. "I didn't think even magic could resurrect the dead."

Merlin didn't think so either. Not really. There was the whole incident with Lancelot, but he wasn't really _Lancelot_. Just a convincing puppet pulled by Morgana's strings. Merlin swallowed. He didn't want to go through _that_ again with this Gabriel.

Gabriel turned his gaze to Arthur. "Amazing what you can do with a little faith, trust, and pixie dust."

Arthur pursed his lips. "Who- _what_ are you?"

Gabriel opened his mouth to reply, but Sam beat him to it. "A dick."

"Rude." Gabriel snapped his fingers, causing Sam to flinch. Sam looked back at Gabriel, seemingly confused when nothing happened. Gabriel frowned and snapped again. "Hm. It doesn't usually malfunction. . ."

Arthur gave an uncomfortable cough. "We should discuss this later," Merlin suggested. "The Doctor said it'd be best to figure things out as a group."

Captain Jack perked up at that. " _The_ Doctor? Or a doctor?"

Merlin frowned. "Does it matter?"

"Depends. Was he wearing a leather jacket or a trenchcoat?"

Before Merlin could question what a trenchcoat was, Sam deliberately turned away from Gabriel and said, "See for yourself. Come on."

Merlin felt a lump in his throat as he followed Sam to the meeting place. There were really only two ways this meeting could go, and Merlin hoped that violence wouldn't be the one.

* * *

 **Next chapter is where the conflict really starts to kick off, and all of the characters will be revealed. As always, reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry about the wait! See, I already had the first three chapters already written out, but from now on it might take a while in between uploads since I have to actually, you know, write them. But this one is Queue's favorite chapter yet, so I hope you guys like it!**

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

Sam was pissed. And rightly so, he thought. Merlin and Arthur had each other, and they were obviously on good terms. As were Donna and the Doctor, and John and Sherlock. Almost everyone has at least one friendly, familiar face.

And here he was, stuck with none other than _Gabriel_. _However that was possible. . ._

Speaking of John and Sherlock, just. . . how? He was sure when he found Gabriel that he was the one behind this whole mess, but Gabriel seemed just as confused as everyone else. The only one who seemed to know the most about what was going was Jacksepticeye, and even his knowledge was minimal. He had compared Sam to Sherlock, as if _Sam_ were a fictional character too. Perhaps Jack had read one of Chuck's _Supernatural_ books. But that wouldn't explain how he'd recognized his face. . . Maybe Sam needed to rethink his definition of "fictional."

"So, Sambo, fill me in. What'd I miss?"

Sam looked down to see Gabriel casually strolling by his side as they walked towards the intended meeting place. Sam briefly glanced around to assure himself no one was listening, then let out a long breath. "I was soulless for a bit. Then I got better. The Leviathans escaped Purgatory, but that's fixed. Bobby's dead. Most angels can't teleport now and were banished to Earth, thanks to your brother Metatron. But he's dead now because the Darkness escaped, and after a few years back in the Cage, so did Lucifer. The Darkness is fine now, though. She brought back my mom to say thanks to Dean. Lucifer's still a problem. As are some angry British people."

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. "And let me guess who sprung Lucifer out. Teach me to sacrifice myself for the Winchesters."

Sam whipped around, blocking Gabriel's path. " _Did_ you, though? Sacrifice yourself? Or did you just sacrifice yourself 'as far as I'm concerned?'" he challenged. "Hell, _God_ came back before you did!"

Gabriel froze, his eyes widening. Slowly, he shook his head, letting out a low whistle. "So dad was there while I-" he cut himself off and pursed his lips, as if searching for the right words. Sam frowned. _While he was what?_ Sam wanted to ask. Even Chuck had thought him dead when they were preparing to fight the Darkness. Where could he possibly have hid from _God?_ Especially if he was as low on power as he was now? Sam paused, waiting for the archangel to elaborate.

"Just because I didn't die doesn't mean that I didn't sacrifice myself. The last few years haven't exactly been all fun and babes. I would've helped stop the Darkness if I could, but I never seem to get the memo when the band gets back together," he explained.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let's save the tragic backstory for once you get us out of this joint," declared Gabriel dismissively. Despite his apparent lackadaisical manner, there was something behind his eyes. Something like. . . fear? Relief? Sam couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew better than to expect Gabriel to tell him. So instead he decided to focus on the second part of his statement.

"What do you mean when _I_ get us out of here?" Sam raised an eyebrow, recalling Gabriel's earlier "malfunctioning" snaps. "You're powerless," he realized. "You couldn't help even if you wanted to. I bet you can't even heal that cut on your cheek."

Without blinking, Gabriel raised his hand and ran it down the side of his face. When he was finished, the cut was gone. "You were saying?"

Despite himself, Sam felt hope rising from the pit of his stomach. "Can you-"

Gabriel shook his head. "My wings are clipped. I was trying to fly out of here earlier with the snapping show. Not powerless. _Limited_. You still need me. I'm practically the only one here you can trust."

" _Sam!_ "

Gabriel cursed.

Sam whipped around. He knew that voice anywhere. "Dean! You're here! And Cas!"

Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder. "You didn't happen to see mom here, did you?"

Sam shook his head. "No, but-"

" _Gabriel_." Cas was staring at his brother with narrowed eyes.

Dean immediately tensed. "What is that douc-"

"Hey, woah! For once, this isn't me!" Gabriel insisted, gesturing vaguely around him. "Honestly, did you Winchesters completely forget that I _died_ for you?"

Dean took a step forward. "Did you?"

Sam quickly stepped between the two. "Dean, wait. He's telling the truth. And he's pretty powered down."

"As am I," Cas added. "Whatever force brought us here was powerful. And it could be disguised as any one of these people." Sam and Dean exchanged a long look before scanning the crowd. Despite the situation and a couple weird clothing choices, everyone looked, well, normal. Give or take. Sam decided he'd settle for it any day of the week, though. Well, any day of the week when he was in a situation as strange as this one. Which, on second thought, was more often than not.

"I can tell you who it's not," Gabriel offered. "Whoever organized this would want to disguise himself as someone unsuspecting, like one of you apes." He nodded to Dean. "For example, it's not spiky-hair over there in the brown trenchcoat, the blond guy that looks suspiciously like an eyepatched Thor from your comic books, or the guy that he's glaring at that my gut tells me is Loki."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "You're kidding. _Thor?_ And aren't _you_ Loki?"

"From the _comic books_ , muttonhead."

"Wait," Sam said. "Obviously Thor and Loki aren't human, since they're Asgardian." _Did I really just say that?_ "But then what is the Doctor? Er- the guy in the trenchcoat?"

Dean coughed something that sounded an awful lot like "nerd" under his breath.

Gabriel looked uncertainly to Cas. "I can't put my finger on it. I can tell you he's not one of dad's creations."

 _A tulpa, perhaps?_ Sam pondered. The Marvel comics have a pretty large following; it wouldn't be hard to create a tulpa-Thor and Loki with the right sigil. But that didn't explain the trenchcoat-wearing Doctor, as Sam had never heard of him before. Sam narrowed his eyes at the Doctor, who appeared to be having a deep discussion with Donna. Despite his rather eccentric style, he looked no less human than the rest of them. But Sam knew that meant nothing; Gabriel wouldn't even get a second glance by most people passing on the street, and he was one of the most powerful creatures in creation. Not to mention the strange glowing silver device the Doctor kept in his pocket. Even if Gabriel said he was innocent, Sam was going to keep an eye out for him. _Better safe than sorry._

"So what you're telling me is that you just _woke up_ and that note was in your hand?"

"Yes! I was, like, _clutching_ it!"

"And you're _sure_ you didn't write it as some kind of advice for your future self?"

"Look at this! You know this isn't _my_ handwriting!"

 _What?_ Sam turned to the unfamiliar British-accented voices to see Jacksepticeye standing next to a tall young man with brown hair. This man was peering over the shoulder of another, this one with black hair, who seemed about the same age and height as the former.

"What does it say?" Jacksepticeye wondered.

"I didn't read it yet. What if it's not meant for me?"

The brown-haired one sighed in exasperation. "You _literally_ woke up with it _in your hand!_ " Sam noted that he pronounced "literally" like " _litrally_."

"Exactly! Why me? Me! I'm on a windy, rocking boat! I can't believe I haven't dropped it yet!"

At that, the brown haired man snatched it from his hands. Sam nudged his brother, pointing to the Europeans.

"' _Dear participants,_ '" the brown-haired one began, staring at the front of the note.

" _Participants?_ " the Irishman wondered, confusion clouding his voice as he scanned the writing. "In _what?_ "

Sam didn't even notice his brother had left his side until Dean had plucked the letter from the Englishman's grasp.

"Hey!" the black-haired one protested.

The brown-haired one placed his hands on his hips in frustration."Americans weren't this _rude_ on tour."

Jacksepticeye shook his head. "You should see his brother."

Sam turned to Dean, who was flipping the note over in his hands. The Europeans were right; in large, neat handwriting, the note read: " _Dear participants._ "

"Wait," Cas advised as Dean went to open it. "It would be unwise to withhold information from the group and make enemies."

One of the Europeans behind them cleared his throat pointedly. Dean sighed, but waved in their direction nonetheless, gesturing for them to come over. Although they did approach, Sam couldn't help but notice that Jacksepticeye stayed as far away from him as possible. Carefully, Dean ripped the envelope open.

"' _Dear participants_ ,'" Dean started, "' _You are gathered here today in order to-_ '"

" _OI! UP HERE!_ "

Dean was cut off as heads turned to look at Donna, standing below the Doctor as he stood on his crate. Dean let out a sigh of frustration but remained silent when the Doctor began to speak.

"Is everyone here?"

A murmured confirmation echoed through the crowd.

"Alright then. If anyone found anything of importance, now would be the time to share." His eyes skimmed the crowd.

There was a brief uncomfortable silence, with Sam exchanging a questioning look with his brother. Before either of them could come to a decision regarding the letter, the black-haired Englishman's hand shot up in the air. The Doctor's eyes flicked toward the movement, frowning slightly when he saw the raised hand.

"Yes? Mr. . ."

"Phil. No, Lester. Mr. Lester- that's me," the black-haired one blurted out. His brown-haired companion was shaking his head, palm covering his face.

"Well, Mr. Lester, what do you have?"

Phil looked towards Dean, who reluctantly passed him the letter. "This letter was in my crate," Phil told the Doctor, pushing through the crowd as its curious eyes followed his movements. He handed the Doctor the paper; Sam noticed that his hand was shaking during the exchange.

The Doctor unfolded the paper, as the gathered eagerly watched in impatience. The Doctor cleared his throat. "' _Dear participants_ ,'" Sam heard for the third time, "' _You are gathered here today in order to take part in what some may refer to as a game. Shortly, you will arrive on an island, where you will be given further instructions and set up camp. The following people should be present_.'" The Doctor looked up, eyes narrowed. He briefly scanned the writing below before calling out the names.

"Castiel?" The Doctor called. After a look of uncertainty crossed the angel's face, Cas slowly raised his hand.

"Gabriel?"

"Present!" Gabriel replied, obnoxiously loud.

"Alexander Hamilton?"

Sam's eyes followed the next hand to go in the air, realizing it belonged to the man in the colonial outfit. The Doctor had barely begun his list, but Sam already sensed something off about it. What was a founding father doing among characters— _no, people?_ —who were clearly fictional such as Thor and Merlin and-

"Captain Jack Harkness?"

A yell somehow more obnoxious than Gabriel's was emitted from the far back of the gathering.

Sam's train of thought got back on track when the Doctor's voice hovered over the name Peter Parker. _Wait- Spider-Man?_ Fictional characters didn't get much more iconic than Spider-Man himself. So why was Hamilton here?

Speaking of Spider-Man. . . Sam frowned. No one had responded or raised their hand, and the group was left with a stifling silence.

The Doctor looked up at the crowd, then squinted back at the list with narrowed eyes. "No, that's definitely-" he murmured before repeating, "Peter Parker?"

No response again, and so again, "Peter Parker!?"

Dead silence.

"Alright then. Hmmm. Arthur Pendra-"

" _UuuuuuuuhhhHHHHHNMMMMMMPH!_ "

The Doctor broke off.

"I'm not the only one who heard that, right?" John asked uncertainly.

Sam didn't get the chance to reply. The sound came again, louder this time. _Was that- muffled screaming?_

A hollow thumping noise followed soon after, followed by more stifled grunts. "Grrrmmmmm. Mmm-MMMMMM!" Sam turned in the direction of the noises to see one of the crates stacked on top of another jerking around and rattling at the top of the stairs.

Thor was the first one to react. "Worry not," he assured no one in particular as he ascended the stairs. He approached the rocking crate with confidence and reached out to remove the nails. Before he could make contact, however, the crate gave a sudden jerk and shot off of the wall and onto the railing.

Everyone held their breath, noiseless, as they watched it teeter on the edge for a fraction of a second. Then, a final moan followed the box over the side of the ship, the frantic sound slowly receding with distance until it was a mere muffled whisper.

A splash was heard over the already crashing waves. Sam winced.

More frantic shouting picked up from the water below. Thor blinked, and suddenly everyone moved, rushing to look over the side. The now water-stained, tiny-looking crate bobbed in the white-crested waves not ten feet from the steep side of the ship. The screams increased in pitch. "You sure it's not a female in there?" asked Captain Jack, still from the back of the group, but the stifling atmosphere still remained. Sam's heartbeat thudded dully in his ears.

The brown-haired Englishman who had identified as Dan Howell during the roll call moments ago was successful in breaking the silence, echoing Sam's own thoughts. "Well, shit."

"I'm sure he can swim," Phil said, not sounding sure at all.

Dan gave Phil a withering scowl before exclaiming, "He's _in a box_ , Phil!"

Sam's attention altered to Thor as he jumped to action, beginning to remove an armour plate from his right shoulder. "There's no need to panic. I got this," Thor said with what he assumed was a reassuring smile, and set the armour plate on a crate and began to meticulously unfasten the next one down.

As Thor removed the armour, the screaming in the water was beginning to form itself into words. "Hey! _HELP!_ "

"Remain calm!" Thor shouted back. He set down the final plate from his right arm and turned his attention to the left.

"I am definitely _not calm!_ " came the muffled reply.

Thor didn't respond. He set down the next piece of armour.

"Take your time," Loki muttered none too quietly from beside Thor. "He's only drowning."

Thor cast a glare at his brother, and set down the final piece of armour from his arms.

Then he turned his attention to the armour on his torso.

 _Jesus Christ._

Sam let out a sigh. He snatched a loose nail from the ground and hastily put it in his pocket. Grabbing his sleeve, he yanked off his jacket, and his next layer soon joined it on the deck. He now only had on his button-down shirt. He thought he heard a cat-call whistle come from the back of the crowd, but paid little mind as he grabbed a long, sturdy-looking rope from one of the boxes and passed one end to Dean while wrapping the other around his wrist. "Sammy-"

"Don't let go."

And with that, Sam ran to the railing, Dean trailing quickly behind. Before he could change his mind, Sam jumped.

The water was colder than he had expected. Much, much colder. Sam resurfaced with a gasp, already feeling his teeth beginning to chatter. "Holy-" he said aloud. "This is freakin' _cold_."

"You're telling me!" came the voice from within the box. "I didn't even know what I was falling into-" the voice was interrupted by choking sounds.

Sam whipped around to the source of the noise to see the box bobbing guileless beside him. He had to work fast.

"Listen, I need you to kick only one of the walls, and hard. You got it?"

Peter didn't reply with words, but Sam felt a hard, repetitive kicking against one of the walls.

To Sam's relief, one of the nails had already fallen out. He picked at one of the nails using the one from his pocket while his other hand gripped the rope to help keep him afloat. With Peter and Sam's combined efforts, they managed to bust open a side of the crate. Peter half-scrambled, half-swam out of the wooden container, with Sam grabbing ahold of the boy's arm.

Though he was too wet and pale to tell much about him, it was clear that he was young- definitely not out of high school. Could this really be Peter Parker? Spider-Man himself?

Sam didn't have time to linger on the thought. Immediately, he felt a pull on his wrist, and for the first time looked up to see everyone looking down on him from the rail as Dean and some others pulled on the rope.

"Hold on!" Dean shouted. Peter reached forward to clutch on the rope, his grip surprisingly strong for someone of his build.

 _He's Spider-Man_ , Sam reminded himself. _It's his job to swing on ropes_. Suddenly, they were in the air, moving upwards in long, heaving heartbeats of time.

At last, he was pulled over the railing and Dean, Cas and Gabriel were there to catch him and the boy as they stumbled forward. Peter looked towards Sam, still clutching his arm for his support. His pupils large, Peter gasped, "What the _hell_ ju-" he caught himself. "Uh, I mean, thanks."

Sam felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "You're welcome."

He looked up to see Thor staring at them tight-lipped (Or at least Sam assumed he was staring. _When did Thor lose an eye?_ ), before bending down to reattach the armour to his body.

"You don't happen to have any towels, do you?" Peter asked hopefully. In response, Dean tossed the boy one of Sam's layers, which he then used to soak up his wet hair.

"Really, Dean?" Sam protested, defensively grabbing his jacket off the ground. "You could've given him yours."

Dean shrugged.

"Peter Parker, right?"

Sam turned to see the Doctor standing next to the boy, whose curls were drying fast and now dangled on his pale forehead as he pressed Sam's plaid layer against his hair. Peter glanced up with confusion. "Do I know you? Am I wearing a nametag or something?"

"Not exactly, but-"

"Wait, I don't know you. I don't know _any_ of you." Peter's eyes widened. "Look, I don't have any money on me. I think," he said, patting his back pocket. His eyes widened, "Wait, did you already take my wallet?"

"No, however-"

"Is this about the thing that happened at the airport? I was told I wouldn't be held under any liability, I swear. I need to have a spotless record to get into a good college—you know how it is." Peter's face lit up, as if he'd been reminded of something. "You called ahead, right? To the school? Finals are coming up soon and if I miss a homework assignment now I'll lose like ten percent of my final grade and-"

" _Peter_."

Peter forcibly snapped his mouth shut.

"Listen to me, very carefully. Everyone here found themselves in a similar situation as yours—no, that's a bit of a stretch—not everyone fell overboard. But waking up to find themselves in a box is a trait that everyone here now shares."

"Oh boy! Let's start a club—I'll make the pins," Peter joked, but his voice lacked the humor behind it.

"Oh, and I should probably mention we're in the middle of a meeting. Roll call." The Doctor turned around, then swivelled back for a moment. "I'm the Doctor, by the way. If you need anything, don't be afraid to give a shout."

With that, the Doctor headed back to his box podium. Peter glanced uncertainly at Sam. "Is that true, what he said? You woke up in a box too?"

"Yup."

"Huh. Oh- I'm Peter, by the way."

"I know. I'm Sam."

"Arthur Pendragon?" The Doctor resumed the roll call, and from that point on, it went considerably smoother.

As the Doctor went on, Sam recognized names and titles such as Sherlock Holmes, Loki Laufeyson, Merlin, Thor Odinson, Arthur Pendragon, and John Watson. Among those were names that were barely, if it all, familiar, like Jack Harkness, Dan Howell, Phil Lester, Seán McLoughlin, and Donna Noble. Sam was called last of all, after his brother, and he responded to it with a raised hand.

The younger Winchester ran over the list in his head, one name in particular sticking out. He nudged Dean and said out of the corner of his mouth, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but Alexander Hamilton _was_ a real person, right? The first Secretary of State? And he's not from modern times either. I'll bet everyone else here is fictional."

"Oh, and we're obviously the type to have stumbled out of a Disney movie," hissed Dean with a voice dripping with sarcasm as he turned to face Sam. "C'mon Sam, there's no way any story about us is on the same level as _Sherlock freakin' Holmes_." With the roll call finished, and attention was starting to turn to the two unsuccessfully whispering men.

"Yeah, but-" Sam blinked, realizing what he'd said. "Well, the whole parallel dimension TV show thing, remember? And Chuck's books? Maybe we _could_ be considered fictional. So doesn't Hamilton seem out of place? He's a revolutionary, uh, _guy_ , and we're all culture icons from the two thousands. Apparently. But, I mean, what's he got to give to our group? Is he going to recite the Constitution at the ocean?" Sam was only half-joking. "I mean, if you think about it-"

Dean gave Sam a light punch on the shoulder to signify his agreement, interrupting him in the process.

"He's from an American musical called Hamilton," Dan muttered to Sam.

Dean, overhearing this, snorted. "We're stuck on some boat with a bunch of psychopaths, fairy tale characters and a useless singing founding father? _Seriously?_ I knew your dad always did have a certain sense of irony," he gestured to Cas, "but this time, is He _serious? Really?_ We fought Satan for _this?_ "

Sam was about to reply, but never got the chance. " _Excuse_ me?" Sam turned, surprised to see—Hamilton?—approaching his brother, expression full of indignation. The man went on, enunciating every syllable, "I couldn't _help_ but _overhear_ your _conversation_ and wanted to _clarify_ if I'd heard you correctly." The man seemed about to boil over. Or explode. Or both.

"You heard me," Dean confirmed, meeting the man's stare head-on. "Who even _are_ you- Jefferson? You should let people who actually _know_ their way around the block with this sort of stuff handle it," Dean said dismissively, facing Sam again. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted.

" _Jefferson?_ You call me Jefferson?  
No wonder you think me useless, he is if anyone.  
I'm _Alexander Hamilton._  
Ever heard of me, son?  
I doubt it, you don't look like a historian.  
If you like I could spell it out for you:  
F-U-C-K-Y-O-U!"

Sam froze. He and Dean exchanged a brief glance, both too shocked to immediately permit any sound as they came to the same conclusion. Hamilton didn't _just_ sing. Oh no. He _rapped_. Hamilton's words also seemed to get the attention of the others; the deck was dead silent, every eye on the founding father. Hamilton only saw this as an invitation to continue.

"I'll have you know that I fought in bloodbaths among soldiers.  
Have you ever had that kind of _real life_ exposure?  
You _dare_ call me useless- look in the mirror, son!  
You're the personification of emotional constipation!  
According to Green-hair, you're a work of fiction.  
You stood against Satan, the embodiment of sin?  
 _Ha!_ You can hardly even stand up on this ship.  
I know your stomach's goin' flip-da-flip-flip-flip!  
Careful not to trip, over the side.  
For this adventure, I think you'll need to be alive.  
Though what you'll do that I can't is beyond me.  
It's not like I helped set a nation free or anything.  
The Devil has _nothing_ against King Georgie's men!  
And I'll have you know that I outlived _them!_  
What've you done, huh? _What've you done?_  
Other than play-pretend demon-hunting for fun?  
I betcha haven't planned war tactics o'er lunch.  
Or scribed the words of the president in a trench!  
Or ever stood up in court as a lawyer.  
Not to mention have _any_ sort of employer!  
Have you ever even had a _real_ job?  
Or have you always just been such a useless slob?  
Do you even _have_ a wife and kids?  
Or are you too busy mooning over _him?_ "

Sam's gaze followed Hamilton's finger, and he almost choked when he saw that it was pointed at none other than Castiel. Dean—for once—was speechless. His eyes were wide and his jaw was actually open, as he was unable to comprehend any sort of retort other than taking a couple steps away from the trenchcoated angel. Looking around, Sam realized that his brother wasn't the only one gaping. Nearly everyone shared an identical expression: a mixture of astonishment and a little bit of delight. (Except for Cas, of course, who seemed mostly confused.)

"Dean," Gabriel began slowly, breaking the silence. His grin was wide, barely able to contain his giddiness. "All the ice in the Arctic wouldn't be enough to cool that burn."

Dean opened his mouth, but any attempt at a comeback wasn't heard.

Without warning, the boat crashed.

* * *

 **Okay, so a couple things.**

 **For Hammy, this takes place a little after Cabinet Battle #1, since in this Hammy's not quite so fond of Jefferson.**

 **Also, in case any of you were wondering why Dan and Phil were considerably calmer that Jacksepticeye: Dan and Phil had the fortune of being discovered by Sean, who gave them a very speedy breakdown of the situation and explaining to the Brits that this wasn't actually some weird cosplay thing and that if Dan or Phil fangirlled too hard and revealed their knowledge they might be put on a character's radar like Jacksepticeye is. Hence why Phil's hand is shaking in the letter exchange with the Doctor. This'll be elaborated on in a future chapter.**

 **Thanks again for reading, and as always, constructive criticism and reviews are appreciated!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry about the wait, but I got it in before the New Year! Which, will hopefully be way better than the crapstorm of 2016. *shudders* Anywho, thanks for your patience! Without further ado, here we go!**

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

"Jesus Christ, Phil, stop shaking me. . ."

Dan groaned. He reached for his covers in attempt to pull them over his head, which for whatever reason, was throbbing with pain. Did they _have_ to make videos _now?_ Yes, he _did_ promise the fans, but this was his Christmas too, dammit. _Surely_ Phil would concede in letting him have an extra hour of sleep. . .

Dan's hand groped the mattress, but his sheets couldn't be found. Instead, what he had clutched in his palms seemed to be fistfuls of. . . _sand?_ Dan opened his eyes the same moment he sat up, with the first thing he saw being Phil's blurred face examining his own. The movement caused his head to rush, and he brought his hand up to it, wincing.

"Phil, what the h-" It all came back suddenly; this wasn't the first time he'd woken up from being unconscious today.

* * *

He remembered waking up slowly, then suddenly in the darkness of the box. He had shouted for help, and he thought he couldn't be more surprised when Jacksepticeye was the one to come to his rescue.

" _Jack? Jacksepticeye?_ What- is this for YouTube Rewind? Did a stunt go wrong? I'm okay, I think-"

"Shut up and listen."

"So, just to be clear, this _isn't_ for YouTube Rewind?"

" _Why_ would YouTube Rewind-"

"On second thought, I'm not okay. My arm feels really numb-"

"Oi! _Shh!_ "

Dan's mouth had snapped shut, the tone of Jack's voice implying something was wrong.

"Don't sit up yet. _Oh, thank jaesus you're here_. I thought I was the only- well, you'll see. Anyway, you should know that _this is real,_ and I have no focking clue what's going on, but when you sit up and look around. . . just, whatever you do, _don't_ scream, or point, or gasp, or _anything_. Pretend not to recognize them," Jack had explained in a low whisper; Dan had never heard the Irishman's tone so serious.

Upon seeing the puzzled look on Dan's face, Jack had gave a short huff of strained laughter. "I must sound like the exposition character at the beginning of a horror game."

Dan had sat up slowly, not really knowing what to expect. There were people milling about on what appeared to be a ship, but nothing was particularly- _holymotherofgodthatisSherlockHolmes._

He felt his jaw beginning to drop before he remembered Jack's words, and forcibly closed his mouth. "That's not-" Dan broke off.

Jack nodded. "And that's just one of 'em." He held out his arm, and for the first time, Dan noticed a red mark that was already forming into a bruise around his wrist. "Betcha wouldn't believe me if I told you I got this from Sam Winchester."

Dan couldn't. Not at first.

Dan had cleared his throat, pushing himself to his feet and out of the box. "Where's Phil?" he wondered.

Jack shook his head. "I don't think he's here. I called for Felix and Mark, even Robin, but they're not-"

"No, Phil's got to be here somewhere." For some reason, this was the one thing Dan had been sure of, if only because he wouldn't be able to stand it if he hadn't. And, lo and behold, after less than five minutes of searching, they had found Phil, awake and wide-eyed in a crate, staring at them with a mixture of shock and relief. As quick as possible, Dan helped Jack disclose the same thing to Phil as Jack had explained to him.

Then, as the three were helping to open the rest of boxes, Phil had decided to strike up a conversation.

"Did you guys wake up with notes, too?" Phil had asked. Jack and Dan looked at each other in confusion.

"You have a note?" Dan wondered.

"Yeah. It was in my hand when I woke up." Phil pulled a slightly crumpled envelope out of his pocket for emphasis.

"Really?" Dan and Jack had queried at the same time.

"And you're just mentioning this _now?_ " Dan scoffed.

"I didn't know it was important!"

Dan had sighed, and started pacing around the box.

"So what you're telling me is that you just _woke up_ and that note was in your hand?"

"Yes! I was, like, _clutching_ it!"

* * *

" _Dan! Are you alright?_ "

Dan was snapped out of his flashback, blinking hard as Phil's face cleared up, his expression concerned. Some twenty meters off, the ship was tipped on its side, the front dug into the sandy beach. Smoke drifted upwards from it, but no fire could be seen. Dan scanned his surroundings: the _Supernatural_ guys were helping each other to their feet while simultaneously glancing around and having a hushed conversation, as were Sherlock and John. Looking around, he realized that people seemed to stick tightly to their "fandom" or friend group, save for Spider-Man who was being helped to his feet by both of the Jacks as Hamilton stood alone, pacing in the sand. All in all, everyone seemed dazed, but unharmed.

Dan looked back towards the smoking ship. It must have hit the land and lurched forward, then fallen onto it side, launching them all off. At least, that was his best guess. Fortunately, they'd crashed somewhere where the sand had been soft enough to cushion their fall.

Dan turned his attention back to Phil. "Oh, I'm grand," Dan replied dryly, pushing himself to his feet as he brushed himself off. "But look at _that_." Dan gestured to the ship. "I can't believe we're not-"

"Butter," Phil blurted out. Dan sighed.

"Sorry. You know, the 'I can't believe it's-"

"I know," Dan snapped, "but I was going to say _dead_. This is probably—no, _definitely_ —the most dangerous situation either of us have ever been in in the history of our existences, and you're thinking of _butter commercials?_ "

"But it's _not_ a butter commercial," Phil protested. Dan bit back a scathing reply and settled with shaking his head.

"Is everyone alright!?"

Dan faced towards the speaker to see Arthur standing on top of a large rock, surveying the crowd below him. A grumbled affirmation was echoed throughout the gathered below. Dan didn't respond. _I'll be_ alright _when I get out of this mess, thank you very much._

"Merlin found this on the floor of the- the ship-thing before it crashed." Arthur held up a piece of paper, looking similar to the note Phil had in his hand. Upon announcing this, nearly all of the side conversations ceased immediately. Arthur unfolded the note, clearing his throat importantly.

" _From this beach, there are three paths. One is northern, one is northeastern, and one is northwestern. You will be immediately s_ -" Arthur broke off, his eyes widening. "Something's not- that can't-" Arthur stared intently at the paper and blinked, as if he was positive he had read that wrong.

"Arthur?" Merlin asked tentatively. "What does it say?"

Dan almost didn't want Arthur to answer. They'll be what? There's so many things they could be. Sliced into pieces? Suffocated by plastic bags? Sautéed? Skewered?

" _You will be immediately split into teams_ ," Arthur announced.

 _Well that's not that bad_ , was Dan's first thought. At least, compared to getting skewered it wasn't. Of course, it then posed the question regarding _why_ they would need to be split into teams. Dan decided to let Arthur finish before he voiced his query, exchanging a hopeful glance with Phil as the king read on. " _Each team will be made up of six members. The first team will take the northern path, the second will take the northeastern path, and the third will take the northwestern path. The first team consists of Gabriel, Sherlock Holmes, Loki Laufeyson, Seán McLoughlin, Peter Parker, and Sam Winchester_."

 _Poor Jack_ , Dan thought absently. The people Arthur mentioned were looking around, confused.

Arthur continued: " _The second team consists of the Doctor, Merlin, Alexander Hamilton, Phil Lester, Thor Odinson, and Dean Winchester._ "

 _What?_

"Excuse me, could you read that again?" Dan called out immediately.

Arthur briefly glanced downwards to Dan, then proceeded to repeat the exact same names over again.

"Where's _your_ name?" Phil asked quietly.

Before Dan could respond, Arthur spoke: " _The third team consists of Castiel, Jack Harkness, Dan Howell, Donna Noble, and_ \- and John Watson and me."

Dan furrowed his brow. _There_ was his name. Assuming Arthur was reading the note correctly. _Perhaps literacy wasn't a thing among nobles in Arthurian times,_ he hoped fruitlessly.

He and Phil were on different teams. _How could he and Phil be on different teams?_ The channel was called danandphilgames, not danandsomerandomfictionalcharactersgames. Though that wouldn't be a very practical channel name in the first place. Dan huffed. He was on a beach with people who didn't exist. Who was he to judge regarding practicality?

"Dan, Sherlock and John are on different teams," Phil commented quietly from beside him. "Do you think they'll be alright?"

" _Sherlock and John?_ " Dan exclaimed. "At least _they_ know how to defend themselves surrounded by people who are _literally_ serial killers! What about _us?_ "

"We, uh- we're the best with our thumbs?" Phil suggested, holding up his thumbs and wiggling them for emphasis, then scrunched up his face and laughed. "I meant video games."

Dan closed his eyes and ran his hand down his face in exasperation. When he opened them again, he quickly noticed that, despite the note, no one seemed notably enthusiastic to part ways and obey the note's instructions. Dan frowned. _What if he didn't_ want _to be in a team at all?_ Who was going to make him? Certainly not any of these characters on this beach, who seemed no more eager to separate than Dan did. As far as he could tell, they were alone on this island. Why should he willingly be a _participant_ in someone's messed up game?

Coincidentally, right as those thoughts were running through his head, Castiel stepped forward and declared, "And why should we listen to you?"

His voice silenced the crowd as someone had finally said what they all had to be thinking. Although the angel was looking at Arthur, Dan got the feeling that Castiel was addressing the note in his hands. For a moment, nothing happened.

What broke the silence wasn't a voice, but a bang.

Dan's ears were ringing, and a majority of the people had immediately ducked down in response. He felt a hand yank him by the arm to the ground, and saw Captain Jack looking at him and mouthing " _don't move_."

No more than ten seconds later, people were already standing up and looking around, attempting to find the source of the noise—no, gunshot, Dan was sure it sounded like a gunshot—or its target. Slowly, when Captain Jack's grip on his arm loosened, Dan glanced around and stood. No one was carrying a gun, and no one seemed to be hurt. Perhaps it was just a-

Dan heard a shout, but the ringing in his ears prevented him from deciphering it. Then it came again, but with much more urgency.

" _Cas!_ "

Almost in unison, heads turned to Castiel, standing in the same spot with a look of utter shock and confusion on his face.

Dan saw it before Castiel did. Castiel glanced down at his chest, blood blooming and seeping into his white shirt from his upper left side. Dan knew the angel was going to fall before it happened; Sam, Dean, and Gabriel were just in time to catch him before he hit the ground.

"Cas, c'mon buddy, you can shake this off," Dean urged him as Castiel lay half in the sand, his shirt becoming less white by the second.

"It's not a normal bullet, Dean," Gabriel said quietly.

Dean's eyes widened as Castiel's began to flutter shut, his chest heaving.

" _DOCTOR!_ " Dean shouted. " _Fix him!_ "

The Doctor rushed over with Donna following close behind, her hands over her mouth and her eyes wide. The Doctor gazed at Castiel with worried eyes. "I- I'm not that kind of Doctor."

Dan saw the pure desperation in Dean's eyes as he opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by John Watson.

"I am," John declared, settling beside the wounded angel. "Get back."

To Dan's surprise, Dean obeyed, backing up to Sam and Gabriel. John quickly unbuttoned the top of Castiel's shirt, somehow seeing past all the blood to study the wound. "He's lucky. It's a shoulder wound. No vital organs were damaged, but there's no exit hole, so the bullet's still in there. It doesn't look more than two inches deep. I'm going to have to remove it. I need you to apply pressure to the wound immediately after, but keep him conscious and try to prevent him from going into shock," John ordered Dean. Dean numbly nodded.

John reached into his pocket and cursed. "My swiss army knife isn't- hey!" John unnecessarily called to the crowd to get their attention. "Someone start a fire! Quickly!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dan saw multiple people run off as he continued to watch, wishing he could tear his eyes away as he stood and stared in morbid fascination. A confused expression crossed Sam and Dean's face upon hearing John's order. "I need something to sterilize the tool with," John clarified to them with a quick glance in their direction. John then scanned the beach with narrowed eyes as Dean exchanged an uncertain glance with Sam, most likely wondering the same thing as Dan was: _what tool?_

Seeming to find what he was looking for, John surprised Dan by leaving Castiel's side as he rushed to grab something out of the sand. John proceeded to dart around the beach and rush back to the angel, tightly gripping something in his hand. "I need to improvise a bit," he explained curtly while fumbling with the objects in his hand. Dan's eyes widened; John had two thin, small pieces of metal that must have became shrapnel from the ship when it crashed. _What's he doing?_

John fiddled with the metal pieces in his hand until he held them firmly in a way that almost comically resembled metal chopsticks. _No- is he making tweezers?_ A moment later, Merlin ran up to John, panting while holding a small burning stick with Arthur following closely behind. "I made fire," Merlin said bluntly, offering it to John.

"You were never good at making fire _before_ ," Arthur muttered.

"That's because you always tell me to gather the logs and prepare food as you insist on rubbing two sticks together for an hour," Merlin shot back.

Before Arthur could retort, John thanked Merlin and carefully took the stick from his grasp. Merlin and Arthur backed away as John ran the roughly assembled ends of the tweezers under the flame, eyes narrowed with concentration. "Alright," John began, turning to Castiel. "Are you with me?"

To Dan's surprise, Castiel responded, albeit weakly, "Yes."

"Good. Try to stay conscious; this won't feel very pleasant. Dean, Sam, Gabriel, hold him down. Dan-" Dan almost jumped in surprise. _Me?_

"W-what?"

"Hold this." John passed Dan the burning stick, then shifted the metal in his hands, his mouth pressed in a grim line.

"It's fine," Castiel choked out upon noticing John's hesitation. "I've been through. . . much worse."

"Then you must've been through hell," John muttered, and pressed the makeshift tweezers into the wound.

Castiel jerked at first, but with Sam and Dean practically sitting on his arms and Gabriel holding down his shoulders, John was able to work productively. At least, Dan hoped it was productive. Blood was quickly pooling out of the wound, dyeing John's hands into into a dark shade of red. Oddly enough, it reminded Dan less of a hospital drama and more of a gory video game. Finally, Dan forced himself to look away as bile rose in his throat to see Phil standing beside him, face strangely even more pale than usual. Phil was still staring somehow, his expression blank but somehow more horrified that Dan had ever seen it before.

"Got it."

Dan didn't even realize how fast his heart had been beating until it began to slow in relief. He looked back to see John passing the bullet to Dean, but Castiel didn't look any better.

John's stress didn't appear to be very allayed either. His eyebrows were tight with worry as he asked Castiel, "Do you know what cauterizing is?" Dan had no idea, but judging by the way Castiel's eyes widened, it couldn't be good. "I don't have anything to stitch it with, but I need to close the wound or you risk dying from infection or blood loss."

"Do it," Castiel grunted. Sam, Dean, and Gabriel exchanged troubled glances.

"The stick?" John held his hand out to Dan. _Oh_. For a moment, Dan forgot he was holding it. He passed it to John, tempted to ask what cauterizing _was_ when John laid one of the pieces of metal in the sand after wiping it off, and held the flame next to it for a long moment. He covered his hand with his sleeve, picked up the metal that must have been blisteringly hot by now, and pressed it against Castiel's wound, putting it on and taking it off in two-second intervals. Dan was winded just watching.

This time, the angel screamed, and it might have been the most frightening sound Dan's ears had ever taken in.

Dan winced and turned away, looking to Phil just in time to see him beginning to faint. He grabbed his friend's arm and held him up. Phil grasped Dan's shoulder and blinked hard, swallowing.

"Sorry, do you think he'll-"

"I hope so."

There was a brief pause, the normal silence interrupted with screaming.

"Hey guys!" Dan noticed Jacksepticeye rushing towards them, noticeably averting his gaze from John and his patient.

"We're going to be on separate teams," Phil stated bluntly.

Jack bit his lip. "I know. Honestly, I'm just hoping this isn't some sort of Battle Royale, ya know?"

Dan froze. He hadn't even _considered_ that. Or what if this was some sort of Hunger Games? How was he, so sorely out of shape, supposed to survive the _Hunger Games?_ He'd never gotten into a physical fight in all twenty-five years of his life. Which, if this really _was_ some sort fight to the death, was about to end pretty damn quick.

"There weren't any weapons on the boat, right?" Phil asked hopefully.

Dan huffed. "Well obviously _someone_ has a gun."

"None of the players do, though," Jack pointed out.

Dan narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Well the note said game, right? So we must be the players, and the writer of the note is the game master, like- like in _D &D_. And you know what the game master does when one of the characters steps out of line?" Jack nodded pointedly towards Castiel.

"He attacks to put them back in their place," Dan realized.

Jack nodded.

"So what you're suggesting," Phil began slowly, "is that we should treat this as a video game?"

"Well, I don't think we have infinite lives, and I'm not eager to test that, but. . . yeah."

Dan considered this. In a way, it actually made sense. If he went with the flow of the game, perhaps he actually had a chance of making it out alive. "A bit more exposition would be nice," he commented dryly.

"But you have to give it points for immersion," joked Jack, although his heart didn't seem to be in it.

"But what should we do if we're asked what our back story is?" Phil wondered. "You said we shouldn't reveal that we know too much about the other characters."

Jack shrugged. "I don't know. But at least you've got a chance. They all know that I know them already."

Dan felt a sinking feeling of dread on Jack's behalf. He was on the same team as _Loki_. If they wanted any information out of him. . . Dan shuddered. "Maybe half-truths would be best," he suggested.

"So we leave out the part where all of them exist as characters in our world?" Phil proposed.

Dan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you might want to leave out that part."

It took the pause in the conversation for Dan to realize that Castiel wasn't screaming anymore. Dan turned, mollified to find that John was now tying ripped cloth that seemed to come from one of Sam's layers around Castiel's left shoulder. He then noticed Sherlock approaching the small group, his eyes lingering on Castiel.

"The bullet," Sherlock faced John, "where is it?"

John absently gestured to Dean. Without a word, Sherlock held out his hand expectantly. With clear hesitation, Dean reached into his pocket and fished out the bullet, passing it to the detective. Sherlock placed it in the palm of his hand, examining it curiously.

"Interesting. I haven't seen this kind of bullet before."

"I have," Castiel replied with a cough. John had finished wrapping the wound, and the angel was attempting to stand. "It's composed of a special kind of material."

"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. "And what material might that be?"

"A very. . . special material," Castiel responded lamely.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but before he could comment, Dean snapped, "Hey, lay off, will you? He just got _shot_."

Sherlock spun around. "Dean Winchester, is it? Partner of Sam Winchester?" His cold gaze switched to Sam. "A bit odd that your FBI partner has the same surname as you, isn't it? Unless you're romantic partners—but that's not what you meant. No, you're brothers. . . or at least cousins. So why would you need to impersonate a federal agent? Was it an attempt to make the people around you view you as authority figures? Do you have something to hide, Sam? I heard your conversation before Alexander's little rap—which clearly hit way too close to home. Demon-hunting; _Satan?_ I've met people with _extraordinary_ beliefs before, but you- I'm almost impressed."

Dean snorted. "Buddy, you have no idea what you're dealing with."

"And you do? Please, Mr. Winchester, enlighten me."

It was Sam that responded, looking as if he was choosing his words carefully. "Sherlock, listen- there are. . . creatures out there, creatures and monsters that most people aren't even aware of."

"What, so I'm supposed to expand worldview to include devils and aliens?" Sherlock scoffed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dan saw Donna and the Doctor exchange a glance. To his surprise, it was the Doctor that spoke next. " _Enough_."

"John, take my pulse." John stared at the Doctor, nonplussed. "C'mon, you're a doctor, you ought to know what a healthy human pulse feels like. Go on, take it." The Doctor held out his wrist.

Dan already knew what what was going to happen. Slowly, John placed his fingers on the Doctor's wrist, his expression transforming from mild confusion to a strange mixture of astonishment and horror.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

John didn't respond. "How are you- it's not like any-"

"Two hearts," the Doctor stated, retracting his wrist and extending his arm so that his sleeve covered it again.

Sherlock gave a dry laugh. "You can't be ser-" but upon seeing the look on John's face, his smirk melted away instantly.

"I'm not exactly the most, well, _human_ one here. I'm from a bit out of town- no, that's an understatement. In human terms, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away would suffice. Or alien. Either of those would work," the Doctor pondered, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Consider your world- well, more like _universe_ view expanded."

Unexpectedly, the _Supernatural_ gang appeared just as surprised by this revelation as John and Sherlock did. For some reason, Phil took it upon himself to break the silence. "Should we go?"

They faced Phil in confusion, as if suddenly remembering he was there, or even existed. Dan could practically see his friend squirming under their gazes as Phil cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You remember what the note said, right? _Immediately split into teams?_ And since you got shot when you protested," Phil gestured to Castiel, "perhaps it was a sign from- from someone that they didn't approve. No offense," Phil added quickly, "But maybe it'd be best to split up and leave, before. . . before someone else gets hurt."

"He's right," Castiel agreed, taking a step forward and immediately stumbling.

Dean instantly protested. "Cas-"

"He'll be okay, I got him," John reassured as he helped support Castiel up. "I'll keep an eye on him."

With obvious reluctance, Dean, Sam and Gabriel left their friend to go to their respective teams. Dan turned to Jack and Phil.

"I guess this is goodbye," he said numbly. Phil firmly shook his head.

"See you later," he insisted.

Jack cleared his throat. "I'm gonna promise you this now: if- _when_ we get out of this, we're going to make the best collab YouTube has ever seen."

Dan let out a huff of laughter. "Thanks, Jack."

"Good luck," Phil replied.

Jack smiled and nodded curtly, but Dan wasn't fooled. He saw his own fear reflected in Jack's eyes. With a deep breath, Jack turned to run towards his newly forming team. Slowly, Dan faced Phil.

"At least this isn't the SpongeBob Slenderman game," Phil pointed out helpfully.

"At least _that_ game had a clear objective," Dan muttered bitterly.

"Hey, we have a _gaming_ channel. We've been training for this for years."

Dan held his tongue, deciding not to point out the obvious flaws in Phil's statement. "Phil, if you die, I'm going to kill you."

". . . Thanks."

"We don't have all day!" Captain Jack called from behind him. Dan went to clap Phil shoulder, but Phil must have misinterpreted his actions as he went for the hug, causing an awkward collision. He heard a snort of laughter from behind him.

"Oh, you weren't going to hug-"

"Nope," Dan stated as Phil's arms remained wrapped uncomfortably around his shoulders. Dan pointedly cleared his throat. Phil briskly let go, and exchanged a long look with Dan that wasn't entirely awkward, before running off to join his own team. Dan took a deep breath and begrudgingly turned to face his own team. It didn't look promising; Castiel was being supported on each side by John and Captain Jack, as Donna stood with her arms crossed next to Arthur, who was sporting the most confused expression Dan had ever seen.

With a seemingly concurrent sigh, Dan's group stepped towards the northwestern path, forward into the unknown.

* * *

 **Okay, so the next time I publish a chapter to this story, I'm going to change the title of this story to "Guns and Ships." (Get it, cuz there's a ship, and there's a gun, and it's a Hamilton reference. . . shut up I'm hilarious.) But I'm keeping it to this title for the time being in case anyone's trying to search for it before they see this update. The original title will be in the description. Again, thank you all for the wonderful reviews, follows, and favorites! It really helps motivate me :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**So apparently this is the first time I'm updating since the year switched to 2017. Heh heh heh. . . whoops. I'd like to thank all the people who reviewe** **d, favorited, and followed despite my procrastination, especially the people who consistently show their support every chapter :) It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. This is the longest chapter yet, however, so hopefully that counts for something. . .**

 **To Tacosaurus: I'm afraid these are all fandoms showing up in this story, although more may appear in a potential sequel that I have an idea for. No promises, though. And yes, there's definitely a possibility a villain might show up. There's a 99% chance the Master won't appear, but as for Crowley. . . *finger guns***

 **And to Guest: Ther** **e just may be a scene like that in the future ;)**

 **Also, I'm definitely not about to complain about guest reviews, but if you are reviewing as a guest, could you please put in a username I could reply to? Thanks!**

 **In my first author's note I said this was 95% Fluffy brainpower, but I sure am thankful that it went down to 78% and Queue and my friends Kai and Katie are helping me out with editing and concepts. And Katie would like to inform you that it was** _ **her**_ **that came up with Guns and Ships as a title. Whoops.**

 **Kai and Katie also contributed in getting this chapter up asap by threatening to raid my house of all the poptarts and potato chips. As someone who knew they would carry out a threat like that, I present to you this chapter. And of course it'd be a real shame if Kai Marie Black with short dyed hair and Katie Elizabeth Stidward with glasses and red hair who live at the coordinates 115°48'38.95"W, 37°14'5.62"N, and 37.8270°N, 122.4230°W happen to not be able to steal my food ever again.**

 **And of course, without further ado. . .**

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

If Peter had known what he was getting himself into by agreeing to help Mr. Stark at the airport, he would have never conceded to coming along. Sure, the new suit was absolutely _awesome_ , but he wasn't sure if it made up for getting put on the radar of some mega-powerful super villain who liked to play with his food before he ate it. At least, that's what Peter's first assumption was regarding the situation. It could've definitely gotten weirder, though he wasn't exactly sure _how_. After all, he was on the same "team" as Loki—most likely the same Loki that attacked New York. At least, he was pretty sure it was the same Loki. He definitely remembered seeing a guy that looked like this Loki on the news. But what was with his brother? Peter specifically remembered Thor having long, blond hair and _both_ eyes. What happened? Was it Loki's fault?

The Loki in question was walking down the path silently, as was the rest of the group. No one seemed too keen on starting a conversation. As he looked around, he caught the eye of Sherlock Holmes, and immediately looked down to his feet. _Could this_ really _be Sherlock Holmes?_ As ridiculous as it sounded, it was awfully coincidental that he had a friend named John Watson, who definitely knew his stuff as far as being a doctor was concerned. Peter's stomach clenched. Did he have a detective on his team? That couldn't possibly bode well for him if he preferred to keep his secret identity, well, a _secret_.

Peter glanced up again, surprised to see Sherlock still staring at him. Peter looked away, cursing himself. Was he acting suspicious? At this rate, Sherlock would find out he was Spider-Man by sundown. _He's not telepathic_ , said the rational voice in Peter's head. _I'll be fine. As long as I don't-  
_  
" _Oof!_ "

Peter stumbled back, looking up to realize that he had just crashed into Loki who had—for whatever reason—promptly stopped in front of him. "Sorry!" Peter blurted out, instantly regretting it. _You shouldn't have apologized_ , he chastised himself. _He destroyed New York, remember? You should've pretended it was on purpose or something. . ._

Loki turned to cast a quick glare at Peter before turning his attention back to whatever he—and everyone else, Peter now realized—had stopped for in the first place.

They were all lined up in front of him, which was unfortunate considering his height. Peter had to stretch on his toes to see what they were all looking at. He managed to peer over Loki's shoulder to see a grassy clearing where the path ended, which contained a large pile of neatly stacked wood, a small brown sack, a little pile of rope, folded towels and blankets, and various tools ranging from handheld saws to metal pans. On top of the wood pile was a small, folded note which caught the attention of Sherlock and Sam at the same time.

Sherlock and Sam both began to walk toward the pile of supplies, eyes fixed on the note. Right as Sam was reaching out to grab it, Sherlock snatched the note and silently unfolded and scanned the parchment. Sam opened his mouth to presumably comment on Sherlock's lack of manners, but then deliberately clamped his jaw shut and raised his eyebrows as he stepped back to give the man his space. Everyone waited eagerly for Sherlock to finish reading.

"What does it say?" Gabriel asked impatiently.

Sherlock barely glanced up before reciting, "' _This is your camp. Make accommodations and wait for further notice_.'"

Loki huffed. "That's it?"

"That's all it _says_. Sam, you saw the penmanship on the previous letter. Is this the same handwriting?" Sherlock queried, passing the paper to Sam.

Sam looked over the letter with narrowed eyes. "Yeah, it is. But-"

"But the penmanship of this letter is slanted too far to the right?"

Sam's eyes widened. "How did you-?"

"I didn't; that was a guess. When people write things in a hurry, assuming they're right-handed, their handwriting will tend to slant to the right. So why would the author of this note be in a hurry, causing them to write this note upon short notice? A change of plans, perhaps?" Sherlock glanced pointedly at Sam. "Namely, having to fire at a particularly non-compliant friend of yours?"

Sam stiffened.

"Or the ship crashing," the green-haired guy—Seán, Peter was pretty sure he was called in the roll call—piped up. "That couldn't have been intentional."

Sherlock frowned. "Maybe."

 _He's good_ , Peter couldn't help but think to himself. He would have to be very light on his toes if he didn't want Sherlock to figure out that he had powers or was associated with Mr. Stark. _Wait, does Sherlock even know Tony Stark exists?_ After all, Sherlock was fictional, and Peter was fairly certain Iron Man didn't make any appearances in Conan Doyle's stories. But maybe this wasn't Conan Doyle's Sherlock; there's _no way_ anyone could wear that scarf and that coat in the 1800s and get away with it. Wherever this Sherlock is from, did they even _have_ superheroes? Where did he even-

"Alright," Sam cleared his throat, "we should probably begin to set up camp before nightfall. There's enough wood here for. . . about three small shelters. We'll want to have the floor of the shelters be elevated slightly off the ground so we don't disturb any possible insect nests, or have issues with water if—or more likely— _when_ it rains. I think a slanted roof would be best, to protect against the wind." Sam glanced around, apparently surprised when no one protested. Peter raised his eyebrows, impressed.

"Okay then. Jack, Peter, you two should go and find some thinner wood we can use to assemble the roof. Do you know how to use this?" Peter nearly jumped back when Sam bent down and picked up the tool that looked like a cross between a saw and a machete, then held it out towards them.

"Holy mother of-!" Seán— _no, Jack?_ —exclaimed, staring at the tool with wide eyes. "I mean, yeah, I'm sure we can figure it out."

Sam looked uncertain as Jack carefully took it from his hand, but didn't comment. Jack turned to Peter, grinning. "Time to go all 'Man vs Wild' on this shit."

 _Oooh boy._

* * *

Despite Jack's seemingly eccentric and outgoing personality, few words were exchanged between them as they walked away from the camp until they stumbled upon a small grove of trees with a little, seemingly freshwater stream running through it. Peter could still see the camp and the figures moving about in it distantly through the underbrush, but even with his advanced hearing it was too far to pick up any conversation. After about five minutes of holding the branches in place as Jack switched between sawing and swinging through the wood, Peter could no longer stand the silence.

"So," he began casually, "is your name Jack or Seán? I heard you being called both."

"Oh," the man shrugged. "Where I'm from, I'm an internet celebrity. Well, I don't think celebrity is the right word. My real name's Seán, but my username is Jacksepticeye. I guess you can call me Jack."

"Jacksepticeye?" Peter mused. "That kinda sounds like some sort of super villain name."

Jack laughed as he snapped a branch off, tossing it to the small but growing pile. "Hmm, it kinda does. I already have an evil 'alter-ego' though. I call it 'Antisepticeye.' It's really cool to see what my community does with the character and stuff." Peter nodded, pretending to understand what Jack was talking about. "How about you?"

"Oh, I don't have an evil alter-ego."

Jack shook his head with a chuckle. "No, I mean do you want me to call you Peter or Spider-Man?"

Peter let go of the branch, causing it to swing forward and almost hit Jack in the face as he felt his blood turn to ice in his veins.

 _What._

Jack frowned.

 _How. . . How did he- shit. What-  
_  
"Are you okay, man?" Jack asked, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

"I- _I'm_ not Spider-Man," he stuttered.

". . . Yes, you are."

"N-no. . . I'm j-just a high school student-"

"Ah, right. Just high school student who happened to be bitten by a radioactive spider! I mean how cool-"

" _Shhh!_ "

Jack broke off as Peter took deep breath. "How- how do you know that?"

Jack tilted his head to the side, then broke into an understanding grin. "Where I'm from, Spider-Man, Iron Man, the Avengers—they're all comic book characters. Well, they're movie characters now, in really big movies made by Marvel. The acting is really great and the special effects are focking brilliant-"

"Where _are_ you from?"

"I'm Irish. I thought that was obvious. . ."

"No, I mean- like, _my_ Ireland?"

" _Your_ Ireland?"

"No- what I'm trying to say is-" Peter broke off, letting out a long breath. "This is going to sound crazy, but do you believe in the multiverse theory? And if you do-"

"You think that you and I are from separate dimensions. . . er, universes?" Jack questioned.

"Basically." The more Peter thought about it, the more it made sense and explained quite a few of the people present. Like how Sherlock— _this_ Sherlock—wasn't a character from the 19th century, but a detective from the 21st. He just probably existed in a different reality as Peter.

Peter glanced nervously towards the other man. "Hey, Jack, if anyone doesn't know who I really am, do you think you can keep it that way?"

"What? Of course." Jack nodded vigorously. Peter breathed an internal sigh of relief.

"Thanks. You know, with Loki and all." He paused. "Oh my god, the multiverse theory is real."

Jack let out a long breath. "Apparently. Though I thought multiverses were already canon in the MCU with Doctor Strange an' all."

Peter blinked. "What?"

"The Marvel Cinematic Universe. Doctor Strange was the most recent movie. It was really, and I mean _really_ trippy."

"How so?"

"Imagine _Inception_ , but with Benedict Cumberbatch and the director's constantly on shrooms."

"Who's Benjamin Cunderpatch?"

" Umm. . ." Jack bit his lip. "I hope I don't destroy the universe by saying this, but he's the actor who plays Doctor Strange. He looks like Sherlock over there."

"He does?"

"Like, _exactly_ like Sherlock. They're played by the same actor—in my world."

Jack glanced around uncertainly, as if expecting the universe to explode beneath his feet. Peter coughed uncomfortably. "So. . . who am I played by?"

Jack furrowed his eyebrows, looking off into space. "There were plenty of different ones, but the current one is called Tom Holland." Peter noticed Jack was forcing himself to sound nonchalant. He wasn't a very good actor.

"How old is he?"

"Like, nineteen or twenty."

"What? _Why?_ I'm fifteen!"

"Hey, Andrew Garfield and Tobey are- wait, _fifteen?_ I thought you were sixteen!"

Peter huffed. "So is it that most teenagers can't act, or do I look like I'm twenty?"

"Ehh. . . maybe somewhere in the middle?"

"Well that's. . . Nevermind, this is too weird. Back to the internet thing—what exactly do you do?"

Jack visibly perked up at this. "Oh, I make YouTube videos. Mostly game playthroughs and a vlog here and there."

"You play videogames for a living? That's awesome!"

"That's what I thought! But, well, it turned out to be a bit more than that. There's the whole video editing thing, plus sound editing, and the balancing out your time-"

"How many people watch your videos?"

"Oh, I was lucky and managed to get shoutouts from a lot of bigger YouTubers. I'm nearly at fourteen _million-_ "

"Fourteen _million?_ "

"If you think that's impressive, you should see how much your films grossed at the box office. You practically _broke_ the internet!"

"I didn't even know they existed until now!"

"Yeah, but not all of them are. . . just don't watch the third one."

"How many are there?"

"Six, if you count-"

" _Hey!_ "

Peter whipped around. He had been so focused on their conversation he hadn't even noticed Gabriel approach, glancing between them and their admittedly pathetic pile of wood with raised eyebrows. "Is that it?"

Peter and Jack exchanged a guilty look. "No, uh, there's more," Jack insisted.

"Where?"

". . . On the trees," Peter replied lamely.

" _Those_ trees?" Gabriel asked, pointing upwards. Jack cleared his throat as Peter looked down at his feet.

"Right," Gabriel remarked, stretching out the word as he turned to face Jack. "You know what? Jack, you should go back to camp. I can help out Peter here."

Jack looked as if he wanted to argue, but after glancing back at their measly pile of twigs, he set down the machete-like saw, then briskly nodded and jogged off towards the camp.

Gabriel picked up the saw and proceeded to hold it out to Peter. As Peter reached out to grab it, Gabriel glanced down at his wrist, raising his eyebrows. "Nice bracelet."

"Oh, thanks." Peter froze, looking down at his wrist with wide eyes. "Wait, how did-" He quickly took the silver webshooter off his forearm, nearly dropping it as his hands shook. _How did I not notice this?_ There was a red mark where the bracelet was, so it must have been there for a long time while he remained oblivious. Looking closer at the webshooter, Peter discerned a long crack in the cartridge where the web fluid was—or had been—contained.

"Crap," he muttered.

"Can I see it?"

Peter was about to refuse, but reconsidered the last second. What'd be riskier? Gabriel figuring out he's obviously hiding something, or facing the possibility of him knowing that the bracelet wasn't what it initially appeared to be? Peter settled that the latter was the way to go and reluctantly passed the silver wristband to Gabriel.

"Huh. Cool design. A bit broken, though," he commented, turning it over in his hands. "Where'd ya get it?"

"I, uh, made it."

"Hmm. Impressive." Without warning, Gabriel tossed it back. Peter found himself reaching out to catch the webshooter out of the air before even processing the movement. As he put it back on his wrist, he couldn't help but notice the lack of a certain crack.

Peter looked back at Gabriel with narrowed eyes. "How did you-?"

"Magic," he replied, gesturing with his hands mysteriously.

Peter glanced between the fixed webshooter and Gabriel with narrowed eyes. As he opened his mouth to speak, Gabriel interrupted him with, "So, kid, what's with the constant stink-eye on Loki?"

Peter frowned. _Was he trying to skirt around being questioned? And I'm not giving Loki any sort of stink-eye. . . am I?_ "What stink-eye?"

"If you're going to deny it, you could at least try to be more subtle."

Peter huffed. "Well, I mean, he _did_ destroy New York. That, if anything, is worthy of a stink-eye."

"So it is _that_ Loki?"

"Unless you know any other ones," Peter replied with a shrug. The corner of Gabriel's mouth twitched.

"Nope, just the one. Though I can't imagine glaring at him compensates for the whole New York thing."

"Well what do you suggest?" Peter snapped, aware of his growing frustration. "I can't just _kill_ him—I _can't_ kill—and you saw what happened to the trenchcoat guy! This is the one time I'll ever get close enough to Loki to avenge New York, and I can't even-" Peter cut himself off with a sigh. "I mean, punching him _would_ be nice."

Gabriel appeared to be staring off into space, expression calculating. "Harming Loki physically won't do anything. And you're right, it would definitely result worse for you in the end. No, Loki's a demigod. And if I know _anything_ about demigods, it's that the only thing bigger than the size of their ego is the size of Iron Man's wallet. If you want to take your chance and get him back, you'll have to humiliate him."

 _'If I know anything about demigods?' What was that supposed to mean?_ Despite that, Peter knew he had a point. "And how should I do that?"

"Woah woah woah, you think I'm going to- to _instruct_ you on how to humiliate Loki?" Gabriel raised his eyebrows.

"Well. . ."

"Listen, kid. I'd love to help you prank Loki, really. But Sam and I made an agreement to not- well, let's just say that the less enemies made here, the better. And I _should_ advise you to think the same."

Peter frowned. "So is Sam, like, the leader of your group? Like you, him, trenchcoat guy, and the guy who got roasted by Hamilton. . . Dean?"

Gabriel stiffened. "You think _Sam's_ the _leader?_ "

"You said he made the major decisions. He sounds pretty in charge to me."

"I _said_ we came to an agreement."

"But it was him that proposed it, right? You agree to what Sam tells you all to do."

Gabriel let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "I know what you're trying to do."

Peter glanced around innocently. "What might that be?"

Before he could reply, Peter heard Sam shout and spotted him heading towards them through the trees. "Gabriel! We need you back here!"

Gabriel shrugged at Peter, turning to exit the grove. " _Run to daddy,_ " Peter muttered under his breath once he was a good distance away.

Gabriel froze.

 _How did he hear that?_

Slowly, he turned to look back at Peter.

Peter's eyes widened. _Oh shit, he_ heard _that._

Gabriel walked back to Peter as he fidgeted uncomfortably. "First of all," Gabriel began, "you need to roll back the attitude. Secondly, if anyone's 'in charge' it'd-" he broke himself off with a sigh. "You know what? Fine. I'll help you pull a petty practical joke on the God of Mischief. But only for the bragging rights."

"Um, alright."

"Great. I need you to get a coconut, two very similar branches, and something sticky. Attach the sticks to the top half of the coconut, and I can handle the rest. But you should probably focus on getting that pile of wood a _bit_ bigger first." With that, Gabriel spun around and headed off to camp.

Peter looked sourly at the still small pile of wood. He was careful not to say out loud, _'I can help Peter out' my ass._

* * *

The shelters were finally finished when the sun was setting over the horizon. Everyone but Sherlock helped assemble the roofs (the wood for which Peter had ended up collecting by himself), with the detective attempting to start a fire. To Peter's surprise, the shelters had actually ended up half-decent given the circumstances. Each of the three were big enough for two people to share, and each had a single blanket laid neatly across the flooring. Upon their completion, Gabriel had proceeded to throw himself on the center one and announce that he would see them in the morning.

Meanwhile, it was becoming apparent that however good Sherlock's deduction skills were, they were no help in determining which rocks and sticks could be used to make a fire. The brown sack, which it turned out contained rice, sat tauntingly to the side between Sam and Jack. Peter heard his stomach grumble as he stared ahead with a blank expression.

"Are you done yet?" Loki asked dryly, staring at Sherlock as he fiddled with the sticks.

Sherlock replied without glancing in Loki's direction. "I'm going to let you determine that for yourself."

"Aren't you magical or something?" Peter piped up, turning to face Loki. "Can't you just start it yourself?"

Loki sighed. "I'm a _frost_ giant. What do you think?"

Peter bit his lip, thinking back to the coconut he had found and stuck the branches to using his webbing. Upon seeing what it made, he had immediately understood what Gabriel had in mind. In that moment, he had decided he would take the burden of 'handling the rest.'

Revenge would be sweet.

Peter shrugged. "That you might be more useful, I don't know."

Loki stiffened. "I don't need to justify myself to a pre-teen human."

"I'm _fifteen_."

"Could've fooled me."

" _Shut up!_ "

Peter forced his mouth shut, looking back at Sherlock to see him standing over a fast-growing flame as he poured water into the pan while he held it over the fire. "Do me a favor and prove me wrong, because right now I'm convinced that half of the people here are idiots."

"I'm _really_ beginning to feel the team spirit," Loki commented sarcastically.

"C'mon, guys," Sam spoke up, "this is the last thing we need."

Loki abruptly pushed himself to his feet, heading in the direction of the shelters.

"Don't you want some rice?" Jack called after him.

"No, he'll be fine. Magical beings like him can survive off nothing but sheer spite for weeks," Peter replied. Loki paused, but didn't turn around and proceeded to walk to the shelter and lie down, his back facing the group.

Dinner was a long, awkward silence after that. Everyone seemed eager to finish their share as quickly as possible. Sam was the first to finish and leave, choosing the same shelter that Gabriel was in, hitting Peter with a sudden realization: _I'm going to have to share._

"Hey Jack, do you wanna share a shelter?" Peter wondered. Jack looked momentarily confused.

" _Share_ a-? Ohhh, yeah, sure."

There was a beat of silence. Suddenly, Sherlock cursed. Peter almost felt sorry for the guy.

It would be a _long_ night.

* * *

" _Scoot over. You're on my side_."

" _No, I'm not._ "

" _Your leg's on my side_."

" _You have most of the blanket._ "

" _So?_ "

" _You said you were a frost giant_."

" _That's not the point!_ "

Peter's eyes flickered open. He was almost thrown off by the fact that he wasn't in his own bed when the memories of yesterday's events flooded back to him. The moon was the only thing lighting up the camp, but it was enough for Peter's enhanced senses to pick out details as if it were midday.

Unfortunately, that only made Loki and Sherlock's apparent bickering louder.

" _I'm not even past the halfway point. Now give me the blanket._ "

" _I didn't say you were past the halfway point, I_ said _you were on my side_."

" _What?_ "

" _I'm a centuries-old frost giant; I need more space than the average human_."

Peter let out a long breath, shutting his eyes. If only he could turn his senses-

 _THUD_.

" _I think you'll find that there's plenty of space on the ground._ "

"For fock's sake. . ." Jack grumbled. Peter glanced over and watched as he pushed himself off the flooring.

To Peter's surprise, Jack didn't tell off Sherlock or Loki, but instead headed off into the forest, judging by how the leaves crunched under his footsteps. When Peter was about to try to fall back asleep, he heard Sherlock abruptly sit up and say offhandedly to Loki, "Take it."

 _What?_

Sherlock walked towards the forest, moving quickly and with purpose. _Was he. . . was he following Jack?_ Peter tensed, straining his ears. He heard two sets of footsteps, one deliberately stepping at almost the same time as the other in attempt to remain unnoticed. Sherlock wasn't going to _attack_ Jack. . . would he? What if he was? They were already more than thirty feet away from camp, and if someone got hurt when Peter could prevent it-

Just as Peter grabbed the blanket and was about to throw it off himself and run to Jack's aid, one set of footsteps stopped.

"Sherlock?" Jack's voice was confused. "What're you doin' here?"

"I could asked you the same thing." Sherlock paused. "However, I'm far more interested in something else. Did you know the Doctor was an alien?"

There was a beat of silence. "Yeah."

Peter narrowed his eyes. _How could he have known?_

"And you knew who I was too. And Sam. But you were surprised that we were real."

"Would you believe me if I told you that we might be from different dimensions?" Jack asked hopefully.

"Not before today," the detective replied. "But you, surprisingly, seem to know the most about the people here. What do you know? What about these people can you tell me?"

Jack hesitated. "How do I even know you're the real Sherlock?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "You implied you were a YouTuber earlier when you made your comment about 'YouTuber minds' and calling to your friends. Of course, YouTube isn't often a full-time job. But it is for you. Despite the fact that your shirt is new, you have a coffee stain on your pants, but didn't bother to change out of them. And why would you care more about having a clean, presentable top? Well, if you're sitting on front of a camera, no one's going to notice your jeans.

"Oh, and if YouTube's your full-time job, that'd give you at least. . . one million subscribers. However, that shirt and pants are good quality and new, and you know as well as I do that the more subscribers you have, the more money you get, putting you at at least five million. Oh! And you're a gamer."

There was a long pause. Jack was probably as speechless as Peter was. When he finally spoke, it was exactly what Peter was thinking. " _Holy shit_. How- how do you know I'm a gamer? Wait. . . how do you know so much about _YouTube?_ "

"I've been bored before," Sherlock said defensively. "Your tattoo on your forearm; it's not anything in a different language, and I've seen game covers with similar symbols."

"Yeah, okay," Jack said, voice full of awe. "You're the real Sherlock. What do you want to know?"

The leaves started crunching again, as one of them—probably Sherlock—began pacing. "Everything you know about the people here. Starting with Loki. Frost giants are aliens, correct?"

"Yeah, but he wasn't raised by frost giants. This Asgardian king called Odin took him in. Thor—the blond guy with the cape—is his adoptive brother. Oh, and Loki's the villain- sometimes. He tried to take over the world. And Asgard."

"Of course." Sherlock's voice was filled with disbelief, as if he wanted to call Jack out on the ridiculousness of what he said but knew deep down that Jack was telling him the truth. "And the others?"

"Look, I don't watch Supernatural. All I know is that Sam has issues with his dad, bleeds and dies a lot, and hunts monsters. I think recognize Gabriel, but I don't know anything about him," Jack explained.

"By 'monsters', do you mean-"

"Oh, like werewolves, vampires, demons- that sort of thing."

"Ah." Sherlock sounded strained. "Monsters that can only be killed by, perhaps, bullets made of a special material?"

"I guess?"

"And what about Peter?"

Peter swallowed. Jack knew he was Spider-Man, and Jack could tell Sherlock right now. What would Sherlock do if he knew Peter had superpowers? What if he told everyone else? _What would Loki do if he knew I had superpowers?_

"I- I don't know anything about Peter. Whatever world or universe he's from, I haven't heard of it. Maybe he's from _my_ universe. He just seemed like a normal kid when I talked to him," Jack told him. Peter let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

There was a brief silence as Sherlock seemed to consider Jack's words. "Is that it?" He sounded disappointed.

"That's all I know."

"Hmm." Without saying goodbye, Sherlock whipped around and headed back to camp. Despite Peter's initial relief that Sherlock gave up questioning about him, he wondered if that meant Sherlock would keep a closer eye on him in the future. It didn't seem like the detective to just let an issue like this go. And that was the last thing Peter needed.

Regardless, Peter was thankful that Jack had stayed true to his word and kept Peter's identity a secret. At least there was _someone_ he could trust. Maybe this experience wouldn't be as bad as he thought. After all, he did have something to look forward to: the sight of Loki's face when Peter decided to enact his revenge.

* * *

 **I have just been informed before publishing this chapter that Kai and Katie stole my chips and I hadn't noticed. I feel like an idiot and promise you all that from now own, there'll be less than a three month wait from now on.**

 **For the chips.**


	7. Chapter 7

**So first and foremost I think an apology is in order. Sorry, guys. I'm not dead, this story isn't abandoned, and please don't kill me. I was already punished enough by my friends.**

 **They _STOLE_ my _BED_.**

 **Queue : Actuallyyyy, it was your mattress.  
Fluffy: THAT'S NOT THE POINT. You did this. Not alone, but _you did this_.**

 **It sounds fake, and I wish I was joking. Oh, they gave it back pretty quickly, but still. The jump from chips to bed is a pretty big one.**

 **Second, I'd like to clarify a couple of things as far as the timelines go. For the YouTubers, this takes place in late 2016. For Hamilton, this takes place after "Cabinet Battle One." For the Supernatural gang, this takes place in early season twelve, after "Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox." For the Doctor Who gang, this takes place after "Midnight" in late season four. For Sherlock and John, it takes place after "The Abominable Bride." For Merlin and Arthur, this takes place between season four and season five. For Peter, Loki, and Thor, this takes place after Civil War, but before Spider-Man: Homecoming.**

 **Now, as many of you know, Thor: Ragnarok (if you haven't seen it, you're missing out) takes place during Civil War. Which means that in this fic, Thor (SPOILERS) is currently down on one eye.**

 **Because of this, I went back to my previous chapters and edited them to make Thor have only one eye, and I also fixed some grammatical errors. All these changes were pretty minor though, and you don't need to reread anything to understand what's going on.**

 **Once again, I have to thank you for all of the nice comments and kudos. They really brighten my day :)**

 **And to the Guest that presented the Behind the Scenes idea. . . I quite like that.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

Dan had never wanted to be a boy scout.

He had simply had no interest in it. When his parents had asked him, Dan declined without a second thought, choosing instead to take piano lessons and increase his childhood experiences by participating in more creative activities. He more or less ignored all of the activities that required more than a minimal amount of physical exertion, boy scouts included. Sure, there were a few times when he wished he could start a fire with a stick or whittle a wooden sculpture with nothing but a pocket knife, but he had never regretted his decision to pass on boy scouts.

Until today.

Here he was, wandering in the middle of an island jungle with a bunch of strangers, without a single skill to offer them as an incentive for _not_ eating him if the food supplies got low. He couldn't build a fire, hunt, construct a shelter using nothing but sticks and leaves, tame wild bears, or whatever else taking boy scouts would've enabled him to do. If this was going to go like any story he'd read or video game he'd played, someone on his team was definitely going to go homicidal. And considering that his team consisted of at least two people he knew for a fact had actually _committed_ homicide, he knew his chances of survival were much lower than the average video game protagonist.

 _You've barely been walking with these guys for a minute and you're already thinking about the inevitability of your death at their hands,_ Dan thought, chastising himself. Phil would tell him to be more optimistic. After all, he had Donna, Captain Jack, Arthur, Castiel, and John. There were people far more inclined to murder on other teams than his. Plus, surely his mind was the only one with manslaughter on the forefront.

Dan glanced to his side, where Castiel was being half-carried by John and Captain Jack, giving an occasional grunt of pain. Perhaps there were more important things he should be worried about.

"This is insane," John muttered under his breath. Dan was glad to know he wasn't the only one harboring that opinion.

"You're telling me," Donna huffed. "A year ago I wouldn't even considered that _any_ of _this_ ," she gestured vaguely around her, "was even possible."

John narrowed his eyes. "So you're not. . . alien?" He seemed to choke on the word, as if he was still have trouble believing the Doctor was real. Dan didn't blame him.

Donna shook her head. " _Me?_ God, no. I'm just a temp from Chiswick."

Jack perked up at this. "So how'd you meet the Doctor? You know a Martha, by any chance?"

"Oh, yeah! I met her a couple weeks ago, during the whole Sauntaran thing. As for the Doctor. . . well, I was at a wedding— _my_ wedding—walking down the aisle when I was zapped into the TARDIS. _Apparently_ , my fiancé had been dosing me with these particles or whatever and wanted to feed me to this- this giant spider _thing_. It's a long story." Donna waved dismissively. Dan was relieved he actually understood what she was talking about; judging by the others' faces, they weren't following her at all. "How about you?"

"I met him in the forties. The nineteen forties," Jack clarified. "I was a time agent before they kicked me out into the second world war. I met the Doctor during the Blitz. A whole lot happened since then, and now I work with Tor-" Jack broke himself off, briefly glancing towards the rest of the group. "Well, it's a government thing. Sort of."

Donna looked as if she was about to say something, when Castiel unexpectedly spoke up. "You are far too young to have been alive during the Blitz," he stated, staring at Jack with his head tilted to the side.

"I look good for my age, don't I?" Jack grinned. John cleared his throat.

"Well you two clearly know _something_ about aliens. They have to be behind _this,_ right?"

Donna and Jack exchanged a glance. Jack frowned. "It's most likely aliens. Not the Daleks though, this isn't something they'd do. This isn't exactly the Cybermen's brand of humor either-"

"Dalek? Cybermen?" Arthur interjected. "Are these the 'aliens' you keep speaking of?" He looked towards Jack, his brow furrowed and lip curled in confusion.

Jack waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, they're basically just creatures from space. _Outer_ space. There's a ton of different species, planets, civilizations, and all of that fun stuff." Jack turned back to Donna, leaving Arthur looking slightly miffed that he was disregarded so quickly. "Who else could it be?"

"Vashta Nerada?" Donna suggested.

"No, they lack the technology. Time Lords?"

"Aren't they all extinct?"

"Well- yeah, I guess you're right."

 _What about weeping angels?_ Dan wondered. Could they have zapped them all back in time to this one moment? But he couldn't exactly make the suggestion without revealing that he knew more than he let on. Dan decisively bit his tongue, keeping his mouth shut.

"What about magical creatures?" Arthur spoke up. "Like a warlock, witch, or fairy?"

John glanced towards Donna and Jack, as if dreading they'd confirm Arthur's suggestion.

Jack pursed his lips. "Remember how I said time travel was involved earlier?"

Arthur nodded.

"Well in the future, most of that medieval magical stuff is considered to have been aliens. Or over exaggeration. Most often the second."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, letting out a small, humorless laugh. "I've witnessed witchcraft in front of my very eyes. I've had friends _murdered_ by magic and have experienced firsthand the awful effects sorcery can have on people's lives. Don't tell me that all of my experiences were either 'over-exaggerated' or just due to some creatures from outer space."

Jack opened his mouth to reply, but seemingly changed his mind, instead pressing his lips together in a thin line. Dan paused. Maybe Arthur was right. If they really we're dealing with the multiple universes that these characters were from, perhaps aliens shouldn't be the only possible suspects on the list of people—or things—behind this.

"He has a point."

It took a moment for Dan to realize he spoke out loud, and he nearly jumped when he realized that everyone's eyes were on him. Dan swallowed. "I mean, think about it. This obviously has to be some kind of parallel universe thing, right? Like, there's aliens where you're from," he gestured to Donna and Jack, "magical stuff where Arthur's from, and practically nothing where I'm from. I honestly have no idea why I've been deemed interesting enough to be thrown into this mess." Dan let out a nervous laugh.

To his relief, Castiel nodded slowly. "That's understandable. Where I'm from, there's an abundance of creatures with mythical origins, yet no. . . aliens." Like John, Castiel seemed to struggle with the word. "And I've encountered a dimension a few years ago that sounds a lot like yours."

"So you've ran into a dull and boring dimension before?" Dan huffed, but continued before Castiel could reply. "But yeah, what I'm saying is that if we know that there's both aliens _and_ magical stuff, then it would be unwise to rule all of the magical stuff out. I mean, there has to be _some_ magic involved in this, right?"

John glanced at Castiel then turned to Jack, eyes narrowed questioningly. "Do aliens and sci-fi explain a bullet coming out of nowhere to hit its target?"

Jack gave a small shrug. "Maybe we didn't see the shooter?"

"I'm a soldier. I know where to look."

Jack didn't reply. Dan cleared his throat. "Personally, I think magic could've had something to do with that. Obviously that bullet must've had _some_ kind of witchcraft on it, otherwise it wouldn't of been able to hurt an- an-" Dan fumbled when he noticed Castiel's gaze shift to him, and the angel's eyes narrowed ever so slightly that Dan could of imagined it.

"-an individual among so many other people. Like it would've been hard to shoot at Castiel without some kind of magic since there was so many of us there," Dan finished lamely. Although he deliberately avoided looking in Castiel's direction, he could feel his eyes boring into him.

 _Shit._ He'd messed up, he messed up- _fuck._ Castiel knew what he was going to say- he knew that Dan knew way more than he was letting on. He literally had _one job._ He took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heartbeat. _No one else could've caught on._ Besides, maybe Castiel didn't even pick up on it. Maybe Dan was just overreacting and Castiel was just staring at him for some other reason—after all, he did stare a lot, didn't he? And even if Dan just displayed terrible knowledge regarding how picking a target works, that didn't mean that he accidentally revealed any hidden information, right?

John stared at Dan and furrowed his brow. "He literally stepped forward and loudly announced his presence. No offense," John added to Castiel.

Dan shrugged helplessly. "It was all a bit of a blur for me."

" _Oi!_ Up here!"

Dan turned, looking ahead to see Donna standing at the end of the trail, pointing down into a clearing, dark with shadows due to the slowly sinking sun. Dan frowned, quickening his pace to get a better view. Arthur jogged to catch up, as John and Captain Jack approached more slowly as they helped support Castiel.

Inside the clearing was an ample stack of wood and other various supplies, nothing at all resembling what he had in his home back in Britain. Dan let out a small sigh. He glanced towards Donna, whose lip was curled in obvious disdain.

 _Same._

Donna frowned and proceeded to bend down to the forest floor, and stood up with a small, neatly folded note in her hands. All eyes were on her as she scanned the parchment.

"I guess we're staying here tonight," Donna said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. She held out the note to Jack, who let out a long breath after reading it.

"Well then," Jack began, "let's get setting up."

* * *

Dan—to no one's surprise, least of all his own—couldn't sleep.

While Dan was so physically exhausted from helping set up "camp" that he was surprised he had the energy to shift in his sorry excuse for a bed at all, he couldn't manage to keep his eyes closed for much longer than ten seconds. Although that was to be expected when surrounded by strangers with known murderous tendencies, if he were to be honest, the main reason he remained awake was undoubtedly the bugs. Just when he thought he killed the last one, another would appear out of nowhere and demand his attention. But even that wasn't as bad as the occasional minutes of a sudden, mysterious lack of bugs. After smacking what had to be his twentieth mosquito, Dan decided that enough was enough. He carefully pushed himself off his makeshift shelter, trying and failing to prevent the wood from creaking. He brushed himself off, wrinkling his nose in distaste when he noticed that another mosquito had latched on before he swatted it off. For the first time in his life, a walk through a jungle seemed appealing.

Quietly, he maneuvered through the camp, grateful for the moon's bright glow. He spotted a pathway through the trees, the branches waving invitingly. Dan paused. He was about to walk into a cryptic dark forest at night. Alone. If that didn't sound like something straight out of a horror movie, he didn't know what did. He glanced back at the camp, noting an angel, an immortal guy from the future, and King Arthur himself asleep on their cots. Dan decided he'd risk the horror movie cliché; he needed to think. He needed to _breathe_. Decisively, he trod into the forest, refusing to look back.

The trees were tall and thick, creating a canopy that allowed in just the right amount of moonlight for him to see. Despite the leaves hiding most of the sky, he could still perceive more stars than the clearest night back in Britain. The night sky here was hues of blacks, blues, and purples, with stars everywhere, not unlike glitter on an abstract painting. Dan desperately wished he had his phone with him to capture the image, and record a short video of the moonbeams dancing as the leaves waved above.

 _It really is beautiful out here,_ he thought to himself. The moon was bright and full, bathing the foliage in a pale light. Dan frowned. Although he wasn't one to actively follow the lunar schedule, he was pretty positive that the moon wasn't anywhere near as full last night. Dan studied the sky with narrowed eyes. _Where is the Big Dipper?_ It was one of the few constellations he knew how to find, but it was nowhere in sight.

With weather and a jungle like this, he should be close enough to the equator for the Big Dipper to be visible, no matter what time of the year it was.

 _I should tell someone about this._ Dan turned, suddenly aware of how far he had wandered from camp. But as long as he followed the trail back, he should be-

 _Snap._

Dan froze.

Slowly, he turned around, tensing and half expecting some monster to jump out from behind him. Nothing.

He _swore_ he had heard a branch snap. He carefully scanned his surroundings, peering through the underbrush. Nothing.

Dan quickened his pace, eager to get back to camp before someone—or some _thing_ —got him.

 _Snap._

Dan glanced behind him, not stopping. Still nothing. He swallowed, putting on speed.

 _Snap._

He broke into a sprint and swerved off the trail, desperate to get away. No matter how this ended up, he was _not_ going to let himself be the first one to die. After running a good twenty meters, he realized he lacked a pursuer. He skidded to a halt, his heart racing, panting as the adrenaline wore off. Dan stiffened, scanning his surroundings. While he was relieved that no shadowy figures crossed his vision, it didn't take long for it to register that he could no longer see the trail he had taken to get here. Dan sighed, rubbing the nape of his neck. He could either wait until it was lighter out, or wander and hope that he would stumble upon the trail or the camp. Neither prospect seemed desirable.

Without warning, a figure burst out of the underbrush, slamming Dan backwards into the trunk of a tree.

Dan gasped, too shocked to struggle against his attacker's firm grip as he was pinned against the tree. The attacker shifted, his face illuminated in the moonlight for barely a moment, but it was enough.

"How do you know I'm an angel?" Castiel demanded, grabbing Dan's shirt collar in his fist.

"W-what?" he gasped out.

"Earlier," he growled, "you wanted to know how the bullet could have hurt me if I was an 'individual among so many other people.' You meant to say angel."

 _Fuck._

Dan forced out a laugh, trying to keep his clammy palms from trembling. "You're not an- an angel. That would be ridiculous. No way would an angel-"

Dan was cut off when Castiel's knuckles collided with his cheek.

"Don't play games with me," Castiel snapped. "Who are you!? Do you work for the British Men of Letters?"

Dan ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting the metallic tang of blood. He turned and spat, hearing it splatter on the forest floor. Dan attempted to struggle out of Castiel's grasp, but his grip only tightened. He looked back towards the angel, his eyes wide. "Fu- you just _punched_ me in the face!"

Castiel pulled his fist back, ready to strike, his blue eyes cold. "Stop!" Dan protested, tensing as he closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. "Please. . ."

When the blow didn't come, Dan opened an eye to see Castiel's arm lowered, but his grip on Dan didn't slack. Thinking fast, Dan gasped out, "Listen—there are two ways this can go. Either you torture me, I scream, and everyone comes out here wondering what you're doing over poor Dan's dead body, or-" he took a breath "-we have a mutually beneficial conversation like the rational adults we are."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. He paused, staring intensely at him, studying him, as if determining if he was telling the truth. Dubious, the angel released him, causing Dan to stumble forward and fall. Castiel didn't offer him a hand.

"Who do you work for?" he questioned.

"Nobody!" Dan exclaimed. "Well, Youtube I suppose. I make YouTube videos. But I certainly don't associate with these- these 'Men of Letters,' whoever they are, or any other cults for that matter."

Castiel frowned. "Then how do you know that I'm an angel?"

Dan laughed nervously. " _I_ never said you were an angel. I mean, even if that were true, you probably shouldn't go around advertising it to random-" he broke off as Castiel approached, tight-lipped and hands clenched at his sides. Dan scrambled back, his hand up in surrender. "Okay, okay!"

He took a deep breath. Dan didn't want to risk lying to a pissed off holy warrior's face, but he also had no desire to explain the Supernatural tag on Tumblr, or his complicated half-formed multiverse theory. He glanced towards Castiel, seeing his patience wearing thin. Dan exhaled slowly.

"You may or may not be a topic of interest on an online social media platform due to your depiction on a television series."

Castiel's eyes widened, and to Dan's relief, his fists unclenched. "You're from the universe with Misha Collins."

Dan blinked. "You- you know Misha?" He nodded.

"Sam and Dean told me about him. Although I don't know why—if you're from two thousand sixteen—the televised portrayal of myself would be a topic of interest, considering Misha Collins' death."

Dan blinked. "Misha _died?_ "

"In two thousand eleven."

Dan narrowed his eyes. ". . . No he didn't."

Castiel frowned, and Dan could practically see the cogs turning in his head. "So what you're saying is that there's a universe where everything is the same to the one I know of, but Misha Collins is alive?"

"So what _you're_ telling me is that there's a universe where everything is the same as mine but Misha Collins is dead?"

The corner of Castiel's mouth twitched upward. "If you know about me, what do you know about Sam and Dean?"

Dan paused, trying to recall as much as he could from his dashboard and the one random conversation with ChimpBot he'd had about _Supernatural_. "Not a lot. I know that they're brothers, died a lot, and have daddy issues." He shrugged. "And a lot of people cry over a gif of a trenchcoat in a lake. I'm not sure what that's about. I know more about the other people here, actually. Not really anything too useful, but I knew that the Doctor was an alien, so." Dan pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his cheek flushed in pain as the blood rushed to his head.

"By the way, it's nice to see that your shoulder's healing up so quickly," Dan remarked, not even attempting to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he rubbed his bruised cheek.

Guilt flashed across Castiel's face as the angel proceeded to reach forward, pressing two fingers against Dan's forehead. Dan winced as white-hot pain fogged his vision, but once it quickly faded, the throbbing on his cheek had went with it. Even the taste of the blood in his mouth had vanished. Dan looked at Castiel with wide eyes.

"Angel powers," he explained curtly. For a moment, Dan wondered if he had healed him as a way of apologizing, or if he was trying to get rid of the evidence that Dan was ever injured in the first place. He shook his head, pushing the thought away.

"So," Dan paused, "how about you don't tell everyone that I know a bunch of random trivia facts about them and I don't tell anyone that you're an angel, yeah?"

Castiel nodded. "That seems agreeable." The angel then looked up through the canopy, frowning. "Dawn will come soon. We should start heading back." Rather abruptly, Castiel turned and began making his way through the forest. Dan had to jog to catch up, not eager to be left alone, lost out here. Dan glanced up at the sky, briefly pondering how Castiel could tell that dawn would come soon if the sky looked exactly the same as an hour ago. Speaking of the sky. . .

"Oh! Right!" Dan exclaimed suddenly, turning to Castiel. "So you know the Big Dipper?"

Castiel didn't even look in his direction. "I was there when it was created."

"Yeah, well, it's gone."

Without warning, Castiel stopped in his tracks, causing Dan to barely avoid stumbling into him. The angel stared up at the sky, eyes narrowed. "That doesn't happen to mean anything. . . apocalyptic, does it?" Dan queried. To his relief, Castiel shook his head.

"No. . ."

Dan could practically hear the unspoken "but." He frowned. For some reason, this reminded him of something. It was dark and the stars were different, and for whatever reason, that was familiar. Dan racked his brain, searching for the connection.

"Oh!" Dan snapped. "That one episode!" Castiel turned to him with a frown.

"With the Daleks, Davros, and all of the companions-" Dan broke off upon noticing Castiel's puzzled expression. "Basically, the Earth was moved from the solar system to this other place to help make a Reality Bomb thing- and everyone was freaking out because the sky had suddenly went dark. Well, and because of the Reality Bomb."

"Are you suggesting that Earth has moved?" Castiel asked incredulously.

"No. But maybe we have." Dan gave a small shrug. "Maybe this isn't even Earth."

"Maybe," Castiel said, but he looked doubtful.

Dan huffed. "Well you're the one with cosmic knowledge. What do you think this is? Who do you think's behind it?"

Castiel paused. "I think I know who it's not. It's not an angel; Gabriel or I would've sensed it if it was. Lucifer and Michael would be the only ones powerful enough to do this, and I can't imagine that either of them could want to."

"Great. So it's not Satan. Any idea of who it _is?_ "

Castiel cast him a quick glare. "There are tons of variables to consider. At this point it, it could be a witch, a demon, a djinn, a pagan—I don't have enough information."

"Or it could be aliens," Dan pointed out. "Or maybe demon-aliens. There aren't demon-aliens, are there?"

Castiel didn't reply. At first Dan was afraid that this was a confirmation, but then he realized that they were almost upon the clearing. Finally able to see past the trees, Dan realized that the angel was right; the horizon was tainted orange, signalling the coming of dawn. _So much for getting sleep tonight._

Dan took a step forward to climb down into the clearing, but was held back by a firm hold on his arm. He turned to see Castiel staring at him, then turned to point at a piece of parchment snagged on a branch no more than a meter in front of him. Dan frowned, reaching up to grab the paper as Castiel stiffened and glanced around. "We're being watched," he said under his breath.

" _What?_ " Dan breathed, scanning his surroundings. He didn't see anyone, but then again, his track record for watching for followers wasn't the best.

"Someone intended for us to find this. Did you tell anyone you'd be going on this trail?" Slowly, Dan shook his head. He looked down to the unassuming note in his hands, and carefully unfolded it.

' _This morning, before the sun reaches its peak, your team is to follow the northern path from your camp. Further instructions will be given once you arrive.'_

Dan swallowed, passing the note to the angel. Castiel frowned as his eyes scanned the parchment, before he folded it up and placed it in the pocket of his trenchcoat. He turned, exchanging a glance with Dan. Slowly, Castiel let out a long breath. "I'll alert the others. You should rest while you can."

Dan opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it as he considered Castiel's words. Although his chances of getting rest were slim to none, he had no idea what he might face come morning. A little bit of sleep could be helpful. "So- so I guess I'll just. . ." Dan stuttered, slowly backing away. "I'll just- so you can, uh," he gestured vaguely with his arms, "do whatever. . ." Dan cut himself off, precipitately spinning around on his heels and proceeding to speed walk back to the clearing. He could feel Castiel's eyes boring into him as he walked back, but he forced himself to keep his gaze forward and press on.

But perhaps it wasn't just Castiel that Dan felt watching him. If Castiel was right, then he never really _was_ alone during his stroll in the woods, excluding the presence of Castiel himself. Although being trailed by an angel was not an experience he'd like to repeat, at least Castiel was tangible and _there._ He definitely preferred it to being observed by some unknown omnipresent. . . _thing._ He probably was being watched now. Some force was watching him, waiting to attack him like it attacked Castiel if he were to step out of line. And for whatever reason, Dan got the vibe that he was a bit more. . . well, _expendable_ than Castiel. He shuddered, trying his best to push the subject to the back of his mind.

Dan wandered up to his bed, looking down upon it with a contemptuous sigh. In hindsight, his little walk had the opposite effect he intended; no way would he get any sleep with all of this excess adrenaline in his veins. Nevertheless, he carefully lowered himself onto the bed, attempting to shift into a comfortable position without making the wood creak.

He ended up on his back, silently staring into an unfamiliar sky.

* * *

 **Whelp, I hope I manage to get the next chapter out in less than nine months. Heh heh heh. . .**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey guys! Happy 2018! And Easter! And St. Paddy's Day! And Valentine's Day! Black Panther was great! Can't wait for Infinity War!**

 **So now that we're all caught up, I'm going to get to the important stuff. Namely, a certain somebody coming back from the dead. . . (SPOILERS BELOW! Use 'find in page' and type in "Chapter 8" if you don't want to risk being spoiled. Or scroll super fast.)**

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 **I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT GABRIEL'S BACK! On account of the mystery surrounding his situation and my effort to stick with canon, I went back and edited Gabriel's scenes in chapters three and four. Nothing too drastic that you have to go back and read, but fyi. Actually, I edited a lot of stuff. Again, nothing too drastic that requires a re-read, I just fixed little things that irked me.**

 **I know I've said this a ton before, but I can't stress it enough: all of you who favorited and followed and reviewed make my day and I'm so grateful. Whenever I see a comment especially, I make really undignified squeaking noises and flail ungracefully. Thank you so much!**

 **And to the guest concerned about my well-being: nothing has been stolen. I'm in the clear. Also, it's definitely A, B, or C (you'll find out in this chapter :) ).**

 **Happy birthday, Katie. You're welcome and thanks for not stealing my stuff :D (although I really shouldn't be thanking you. . .)**

 **Special thanks to Queue for helping me with the ending. Without further ado-**

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

Back on the ship, Merlin had convinced himself that this wasn't an illusion.

Now he wasn't so sure.

Because _now,_ projectile "bullets" could apparently fly in from nowhere and embed themselves in their target, and everyone knew what they were except for him. Hair could be green, giant metal ships could float, and not only were there "aliens"—there were _space_ aliens. If he could be certain of anything, it would be that at least Morgana couldn't have been behind this. Illusion or not, she had neither the power nor creativity to pull this off.

 _But then who did?_ As insane as it sounded, perhaps this really _was_ a time travel thing. Captain Jack seemed to believe it, anyway. And while one man's belief wasn't nearly enough to influence Merlin's, it wasn't hard to chalk up all of the unexplainable impossibilities he had experienced this morning to future technology. Or magic. At this point, Merlin would take either explanation. Maybe even both.

He would prefer it if it was neither, though.

Phil—Merlin was fairly certain that was his name—was jogging up to their newly forming group after an awkward hug with his brown-haired friend. Merlin briefly wondered if he should have tried hugging Arthur before they split up, but quickly shook his head upon realizing he probably would have received a whack upside the head in response. Phil was panting slightly when he caught up, but quickly cleared his throat and glanced at the group expectantly. No, not at the _group_ —at the _Doctor._

"So," the Doctor clapped his hands and briefly surveyed the people before him, "I don't like it, but it seems to be in our best interests to follow what the note says. But as soon as I can figure out what's-"

" _Our_ bests interests?" Dean interrupted, crossing his arms. "So am I supposed to believe you're just some helpful, _friendly_ space monster? More E.T., less Predator?" Although the way he said it was in an almost offhand manner, there was something hard in his voice that told Merlin that there was definitely a wrong answer to be chosen.

The Doctor opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off when Alexander Hamilton stepped forward. "Just for clarification," Alexander glanced briefly between the Doctor and Dean, "you meant 'alien' as in _not from Earth_ , correct?" he asked incredulously.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Oh, don't act surprised. Age of Enlightenment, right? The concept's been introduced by now. And I've been told I'm more Spock."

Thor chuckled softly, his eyes quickly skimming over the group. "You're all acting as if 'aliens' are a completely improbable idea," he declared with grand hand gestures. "Battle of New York aside, aliens have been visiting Earth for a long time. It was about a. . ." he trailed off, his single eye narrowing as he pursed his lips, seemingly performing intense mental calculations. "A thousand years since I last came around? Maybe. . ."

Alexander gave Thor a once-over before insistently shaking his head. Merlin wished that he could still find it surprising that the man in front of him was over a thousand years old. It said a lot more about his day-to-day life than he would have liked it to. Dean rolled his eyes at Alexander's reaction, followed by a deep breath which was let out slowly, more exasperated than shocked. "You're the Norse- er, Asgardian lightning-hammer god, but-"

"Not anymore."

Dean frowned. "You're outta juice too?"

 _Too?_ What was that supposed to mean? If Merlin's guess was correct, "juice" meant power (how Thor apparently had that power in the form of lightning and a hammer he decided to ponder later). So who else—human or otherwise—wasn't able to exercise their power? Merlin's magic had worked just fine when he had loosened the nail on the crate and started the fire for John. Perhaps Dean's brother Sam, or his friends Castiel and Gabriel weren't as lucky as he was.

Thor simply shook his head. "Oh no, I have plenty of juice. I lost my hammer. Well, I say lost—it was destroyed." His shoulders slumped a little upon recalling his missing hammer, but he quickly perked up. "But I did find out that my brother was alive, so that was a bonus. I think."

"Yeah, Loki seems like a great guy," Dean commented dryly. "But at least we know _what_ he is." His eyes shifted to the Doctor, narrowing ever so slightly. "What are _you?_ "

The Doctor looked momentarily startled, but it was so brief Merlin could've imagined it. He waved his hand dismissively and said, "You wouldn't recognize it."

"Try me."

The Doctor paused. "I'm Gallifreyan; it's just to the left of Karn, in the constellation of Kasterborous."

Merlin found himself looking to Thor for a reaction, but Thor and Dean seemed equally puzzled. To Merlin's surprise, it was Alexander who spoke next, asking, "What's your name?"

The Doctor cast a glance behind him, quickly scanning the beach. "The teams are clearing out. Let's head out before-"

"C'mon, Doc," Dean interjected, slowly approaching the alien. "When Arthur read off that list, he said everyone's name but yours. So either alien parents name their kids after _professions_ , or even the douches behind this don't know who you are. Besides," Dean stopped in front of the Doctor, staring him down, "it's only a name."

As much as he hated to admit it, Merlin agreed with Dean. Although he was acting like the more entitled nobles Merlin had been required to serve in Camelot's castle—with his blatant disregard for others' opinions and his apparent superiority complex—he _did_ have a point. Why would the Doctor feel the need to hide his name, especially when he knew everyone else's? To the Doctor's credit, he matched Dean's stare evenly for a long moment, refusing to flinch.

"We _really_ should go."

Dean huffed at that, breaking his gaze by shaking his head. "Yeah. Sure." He then shoved past the Doctor, heading towards their designated path without bothering to spare him a second glance.

After a long, expressionless look at the alien, Thor followed, succeeded by Alexander. The Doctor shook his head softly and let out a defeated sigh, but followed after them regardless, his step purposeful and agitated. For a moment, Merlin was grateful that Arthur wasn't with him; despite his kingly status, he wasn't exactly adept at diplomacy. In other words, he didn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

Merlin soon found himself bringing up the rear of the group with Phil, trying his best to ignore the uneasy silence. Phil was wringing his hands together as they walked, his eyes fixed on the ground. _He hasn't said anything,_ Merlin realized. _Not since our "team" formed._ _Was he okay?_

Despite his obvious discomfort, Phil appeared unwilling to break the taciturnity; so as always, the duty fell upon Merlin. "Hey, are you alright?" Merlin asked softly. Phil jumped, nearly causing Merlin himself to start. "You, uh, seem pretty quiet."

"Well, so do you," Phil countered. Merlin let out a short laugh.

"Believe me, I did _not_ want to get involved in that," he said, nodding to the men in front of him. "But I don't know, you seem. . ." Merlin trailed off, letting the question hang in the air.

"I guess I just never thought anything like this could happen to _me_ , you know?" Phil shrugged. "I'm still not completely convinced that this isn't some weird, bad restaurant food-induced dream."

"Usually I wouldn't wish bad food-induced dreams on anyone, but that's probably the ideal scenario here." Merlin paused, considering. "A bit vivid for a dream, though."

"A bit, yeah," Phil agreed. He chewed his lip, as if contemplating saying more, but decided against it.

"This might sound weird, but. . ." Merlin hesitated, turning his gaze to the ground, "what year is it? The last time you checked?"

If Phil thought the question was strange, he didn't show it. "Late twenty-sixteen. I checked yesterday. You're from the four hundreds, I think," he added softly.

Merlin's eyes widened. He had thought three hundred, _maybe_ five hundred years in the future at most. But over a _thousand and a half years?_ How could Captain Jack have recognized his name after all that time? Someone's legacy surviving after a thousand years was unheard of. What could he have _possibly_ done that makes him so memorable? If Phil knew, Merlin decided that it would be best for him not to ask. Instead he just let out a soft "Oh."

He was in over his head. Dragons, witches, faeries—those Merlin could deal with. _This_ was far beyond him. He wasn't sure he trusted the Doctor, but Merlin wished nothing but luck for him in his efforts to figure this out. Merlin didn't even know where to start looking for answers. And although he had no doubt that Gwen was competent enough to manage Camelot on her own, she would be no match if Morgana decided to strike when she heard of he and Arthur's absence. Merlin shuddered. There would be no Emrys to stop her this time.

Perhaps this was more time-sensitive than he initially thought.

He curled his toes. Despite his vast magical prowess, there wasn't much he could do aside from wait.

* * *

As it turned out, waiting wasn't anyone else's specialty either.

Once they had finished constructing a camp after coming across supplies in a clearing, there wasn't a whole lot to keep them occupied. The note they had found on top of the supplies had told them to "wait for further notice," but further notice was taking its sweet time. It was almost sunset now, and yet everything was stagnant. The air was still and muggy, weighing down on everyone's shoulders like a wool blanket. Merlin found himself cooking the food in order to keep busy, and it was—to an extent—reassuring to perform something so familiar. And at least he had an _excuse_ not to talk to anyone. Everyone else seemed to be sitting in a tense silence.

Well, most were sitting. The Doctor was pacing on the edge of the camp, occasionally muttering about a "tardis," "in flux," or "sonic." Dean and Alexander were seated on opposite sides of the camp, each eating a bowl of rice Merlin had prepared previously. Thor was sitting by the fire, motionless and seemingly lost in thought, a polar opposite to the constantly shifting Phil who sat next to him, bouncing his leg.

This definitely wasn't Merlin's first time camping in the woods with strangers—his early expeditions with the knights and that one time with Tristan and his smugglers came to mind—but none of those nights had felt quite like this one. There was something heavy in the air, not unlike the way it felt before a storm, yet the sky couldn't have been clearer. It was as if everyone was watching each other when their backs were turned, anticipating the drop of the other shoe. And if Merlin's history was any indication, it was only a matter of time.

He absently poured the rice into two separate bowls, passing them over to Thor and Phil and announcing, "Here you are."

"Thank you," Thor said earnestly before reaching for a spoon. Phil, on the other hand, just stared at it with poorly concealed distaste.

"It looks. . . ricey," he commented, but reached out for the bowl anyway. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. Thanks," Phil added hurriedly.

"I don't exactly have a lot to work-" Merlin began, but cut himself off when he thought he saw something shift in the corner of his eye. He turned, barely managing to see a figure vanish into the underbrush on the outskirts of the camp.

"What is it?" Phil wondered as he leaned to the side in order to peer behind Merlin, his eyes wide. Merlin stiffened and blinked; _did Phil not notice?_ Could he just have imagined it?

Merlin turned to face Phil and opened his mouth to speak, only to promptly close it once he realized that there _was_ something amiss. Or rather, _someone_. Alexander was still eating his rice, the Doctor was still pacing, yet Dean was nowhere in sight. "It's nothing," he assured Phil. "I just have to- I'll be right back."

Feeling Phil's utterly baffled gaze on his back, Merlin walked as quickly as he could without seeming suspicious to the spot where Dean disappeared. He hastily turned to give Phil a quick, forced smile before stepping into the bushes himself.

Even though hunting was mostly for Arthur's enjoyment and Merlin was just the guy who carried the supplies, Merlin still managed to pick up some tracking tactics over the years. He recognized the broken branches and the ruffled leaf-mulch that signalled that someone had been here recently. With a proud grin, he moved to follow the subtle path, only to stop with a frown.

Why was he following him? _Dean could just be out for a walk,_ he reasoned. Merlin had considered going on one himself. And he knew Dean wouldn't appreciate being followed. Did he really distrust everyone here that much? Although, Dean _did_ leave right when half the group was distracted by conversation. And the trail he left wasn't nearly as obvious as it could've been; Merlin wagered only an experienced hunter would've been able to pick up on it.

 _Best not to risk it_ , he settled, and followed the trail deeper into the woods.

It wasn't long before he managed to catch up with Dean. And when he did, all of his doubts about following the man dissolved immediately. He was stepping lightly, glancing behind him at least twice a minute, and Merlin thought he could make out the rice bowl clutched in Dean's hand. Merlin silently apologized to Arthur for ever complaining about dragging him on all of those hunts, and he thanked the vines and thicket for being dense enough to prevent him from being noticed.

Finally, Dean stopped. Merlin peered around the tree, watching him quizzically. He seemed to be searching for something; he had set the bowl down on the stump behind him as he started to rummage through the underbrush. Merlin's confusion only increased when Dean let out a huff of triumph, pushing himself up with what appeared to be a sharp stone and a handful of short sticks and dried leaves.

 _What was he_ doing?

Dean headed back over to the bowl, gently placing it on the ground. To Merlin's surprise, he then knelt down, placing his elbows on the stump and bowing his head.

 _Was he_ praying?

"Breaker, breaker," Dean began after clearing his throat. "Sorry if the signal's fuzzy; no idea if this is even working here. Anyway, status update: we're all fine. Doctor says he's a 'Gallifreyan.' Hopefully that doesn't mean anything to you. You probably don't need me to tell you this, but keep your eye out for anything suspicious. Stay on the down-low. Also, I'm about to do something stupid, but it should get us some answers. I'll get back to you later."

Unceremoniously, he pushed himself up and brushed off his pants. He grabbed the stone and proceeded to carve away at the top of the stump. At first his lines seemed random, but it didn't take Merlin long to recognize that Dean was drawing a sigil. It was large and triangular, with lines patterned purposefully inside. Something tugged at the back of Merlin's memory, but he was too surprised to investigate that thought now. Dean—suspicious, gruff, doesn't-like-what-he-doesn't-understand Dean—was using magic.

Merlin felt indignation rising in his chest, and he had to take a deep breath to prevent himself from blowing his cover right then and there to confront him. Instead, Merlin pressed his lips in a thin line and continued to observe. Dean deliberately placed three of the sticks upright in the ground at the roots of the stump, matching the drawn triangle's corners. He then bent down and pulled a small silver box out of his pocket, clicked it, and lit the tips of each stick on fire.

 _This is a ritual,_ Merlin realized as Dean tossed the handful of dried leaves into the bowl. Even those born without the gift of natural magic could perform them, provided they carry it out correctly. But even Merlin would need his book for most rituals; they needed to be memorized perfectly, and if not, they had much more room for error than a simple verbal spell. And Dean was doing it almost _casually_. How many times had he done this? And he had the _audacity_ to interrogate the Doctor for keeping secrets?

Dean surveyed his work, pursing his lips. "Good enough," he muttered, pressing the sharp end of the stone to his hand. It was only when he drew a long, bleeding line into his palm and squeezed the dripping blood into the bowl did Merlin realize what kind of ritual this was.

No good magic required blood. Good creatures didn't, either. This was Black Magic.

And not only that; this was a summoning spell.

As Dean wrapped a spare piece of cloth around his cut hand and pulled the silver box out of his pocket, Merlin realized that he couldn't let him continue.

" _Ádræfe!_ "

Merlin held out his hand and Dean was flung backwards by an invisible force, slamming hard against a tree. Dean groaned as he tried to push himself to his feet, his eyes narrowing as he saw Merlin approach.

"What are you _doing?_ " Merlin demanded, gesturing back towards the stump.

Dean shifted to glance between Merlin and the ritual he was preparing, his eyes growing wide. "This isn't what it looks like, okay?"

Merlin huffed. "Well it _looks_ like you're trying to use black magic."

"You're the _last_ person qualified to be the magic police," Dean retorted, glancing pointedly at Merlin's outstretched hand. Merlin stiffly brought his arm to his side, mouth open in an unspoken retort. Although he did wonder what _police_ were, he was more concerned with how Dean didn't even seem to bat an eye upon realizing he had magic. He thought back to Captain Jack on the boat, and how he had commented about the knights of the round table and that Merlin was a sorcerer. Did _everyone_ from the future know he had magic?

Merlin shook his head, narrowing his eyes at Dean. "I don't use my magic to _summon monsters!_ "

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to reconsider, instead shaking his head and letting out a long sigh. "Tell you what; take me back to camp, and I'll explain everything. To everyone. No more tip-toeing around the truth. Sound good?" He stood slowly, his hands raised placidly as he met Merlin's gaze.

Merlin hesitated, but upon studying Dean's earnest expression, he relented. "Alright," Merlin said firmly with a nod and turned to the direction of camp, casting a glance behind him to make sure Dean was following. It would be an understatement to say that he was surprised Dean offered to explain himself to the camp; he didn't exactly seem like the kind of guy that would be willing to open up to a bunch of strangers. But any redeeming thoughts about Dean vanished when Merlin heard the click of the small silver box as they passed the bowl and Dean quickly mutter, " _Et ad congregandum, eos coram me._ "

Merlin turned just in time to see him drop the aflame silver box into the bowl.

The second it landed, the fire flared up, showering the ground around it with sparks of unnatural colors. Merlin turned to face Dean in horror, but his eyes were instantly drawn to the unfamiliar figure behind him.

"Hello, boys."

He wasn't short, but he had a certain stoutness about him. He had an unshaven face, which contrasted with his obviously expensive, all-black clothing. Despite his less than monstrous appearance, he had an undeniable _wrongness_ about him that practically screamed at Merlin. Off of instinct more than anything, Merlin held his palm out towards the creature and tried to use his magic to thrust him back against a rock, but only succeeded in causing the creature to slightly stumble backwards and draw his attention to Merlin.

The creature sighed and shook his head. He raised his hand, and without warning, Merlin was thrown back against a tree.

Merlin tried to gasp as the air was shoved out of his lungs, but it was if invisible hands were trying to strangle him as he remained suspended in the air, his back against the bark and facing the creature. A brief glance out of the corner of his eye informed him Dean was in the same precarious position. The creature approached Dean slowly, still shaking his head. Although it was hard to focus as he struggled for a breath, Merlin could make out the creature say, "Dean, Dean, Dean. After almost ten years, you'd think you could trust someone not to summon you with the intention of hiring some C-list witch to _stab you_ in the back. Doesn't quite seem like the oh so honorable Winchester way. Especially since we're _on the same bloody side!_ "

The creature clenched his fist, and Dean grabbed feebly at his throat. " _Didn't. . . invite him._ _. ._ " Dean gasped out, looking in Merlin's direction. Merlin would probably feel offended if he weren't so busy panting for a breath.

Twin thumps echoed throughout the clearing as Merlin and Dean were released and crashed to the ground. Merlin greedily gasped for air, and pushed himself upright to see the creature not even bothering to face him, just looking down at Dean with an amused expression.

"My apologies," he said to Dean, yet his tone was anything but sorry. "Now," the creature declared, turning to face Merlin. His hand was up, the thumb and forefinger pressed together as if he were about to snap.

Dean scrambled to his feet. " _Don't!_ "

The creature paused.

Dean pursed his lips. "He's a friend."

The creature hesitated and looked between Merlin and Dean, his expression contemplative. Merlin froze, avoiding the creature's gaze. _Friend_ wasn't exactly the word Merlin would use to describe how he regarded Dean, so for him to lie like that. . . Merlin swallowed.

After a long moment, the creature lowered his hand. "You're lucky you caught me on a good day," he muttered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a round object, casually tossing it on the ground not far from Merlin. Merlin moved to take a step away from it, but when the creature gestured lazily at Merlin and said " _Manete_ ," he found his legs unwilling to budge. He tried to take a step, but it was as if his feet had taken root into the ground. Merlin turned to the creature, his eyes wide.

"Never seen a hex bag before? It cancels out magic, so I wouldn't waste your breath," the creature commented with raised eyebrows. "Dean, your moose replacement is just. . . Well, between you and me, frankly an insult to the real thing. Where is he? Speaking of which," the creature peered at the jungle around them, "where _are_ we?"

Dean cleared his throat. "I was hoping you could help with that one."

"And the plot thickens."

 _How did Dean know this creature?_ And for almost ten years, too. Dean seemed to have a history with _this_ creature, yet he thought he had the right to judge the Doctor after a little more than a minute. Not to mention this creature was summoned from _black magic!_ "What are you?" Merlin demanded, standing as straight as possible despite his awkwardly positioned feet.

The creature let out a soft chuckle. "The name's Crowley. King of Hell, with a capital H. And who might you be?"

Merlin blinked. That- that wasn't possible. His magic book had mentioned the Underworld, but it was believed to be ruled by Satan, not _Crowley_. Unless. . . "Are you the Devil?"

Crowley huffed. "Not _that_ King of Hell. Well, as of ten years ago he was, anyway. I'm in charge of the new and improved regime."

Dean snorted at that. Crowley pretended not to notice, slowly turning around with an inquisitive expression. "Huh."

"What?" snapped Dean.

"This appears to be a parallel dimension, or perhaps a pocket universe—something of that sort. The warding here is strong; I doubt any other demon would've been able to get past them. _How_ _ever_ did you end up here?" Crowley smirked.

Merlin frowned. A parallel world? The only parallel world he knew of was the land of the Fae. Even the more powerful magical creatures couldn't just _toss_ people in parallel worlds on a whim. Part of him wanted to simply write off what Crowley said as a demon's lie, but Dean didn't seem particularly shocked by this revelation.

Dean clenched his jaw. "I don't know. Can't you just zap us back?"

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers. Nothing happened.

"Apparently not. It could be warding, a blood spell—regardless, you're not going anywhere."

Dean cursed. Crowley, however, seemed unconcerned. "And when you said 'us,' I assume you're referring to-"

"Me, Sam, Cas," Dean said curtly. Crowley raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly to Merlin.

"But not your friend?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"I'd rather not accept help from a _demon_ , thanks," Merlin snapped.

"I wasn't offering it," Crowley replied evenly. The demon pursed his lips, beginning to pace. "I suppose I _could_ do some investigating to try to get you back. But the Winchesters and their angel, trapped in a jungle dimension. . . The prospect is almost too good."

Dean shifted uncomfortably, but quickly straightened to hide it. "Do you really think you can take on Lucifer without us?"

"Relax. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Besides, with how many enemies we've had, we're practically besties." Crowley grinned.

Dean growled, "Just be quick, alright?"

"I'll make my best efforts," Crowley said, raising his hand to snap. Dean crossed his arms.

"Like the 'best efforts' you made to give Bobby his soul back?"

Crowley didn't reply with words, but gave Dean a knowing smirk. With a snap of his fingers, he vanished, and all of the flames went out with him.

" _Son of a bitch!_ " Dean shouted at the empty space where Crowley had been standing. Grumbling, he pulled the silver box out of the bowl and approached Merlin. Merlin instinctively tried to move away, only to be reminded of how his feet were stuck to the ground. He opened his mouth to comment, but Dean simply bent over and picked up the strange hex bag and clicked his silver box, setting it aflame. It felt as if shackles had been released from his feet, and a weight lifted off of his shoulders that he hadn't even realized was there. Merlin took an experimental step back, relieved to find that he _could_.

"Better?"

Merlin just gaped at him, his eyes wide. "You know the King of Hell? _Personally?_ And you're- you're what, fighting _Lucifer_ together?"

Dean shrugged. "It's a long story. Believe me, if it were optional, I would've opted out a long time ago."

Merlin took a sharp intake of breath. "Did you. . . Did you sell your soul?" he asked under his breath.

"My soul is my own," Dean declared firmly. He looked down, biting his lip. "Look, if you wanna tell everyone what happened here, I won't try to stop you. But it would make things-"

"Complicated?" Merlin suggested, although perhaps _more_ complicated would've been accurate.

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched. "That's one word for it."

Merlin pressed his lips together, exhaling through his nose. "I don't know yet. If I'll tell them. I will if it becomes relevant but it's. . . a lot to swallow."

Dean laughed humorlessly. "Story of my life. But you _really_ shouldn't have followed me."

Merlin tensed, trying to sense if there was a threat in Dean's voice. "Why? I mean, aside from you probably not wanting me to see you _summoning a demon_."

"I'm warded against being found or tracked by- well, pretty much everything. And I'd love to be wrong here, but I don't think you have the Enochian hoodoo that I've got. I _was_ betting on being able to summon Crowley without being found out by those bastards that shot Cas, but since you're here. . ." He sounded more resigned than he did angry. Merlin tried to suppress the guilt rising in his chest. "Crowley said he barely managed to get past the demon warding as it is, and I bet it's being doubled now."

"You won't be able to summon him again," Merlin realized. A part of him was relieved; he was perfectly content with being a dimension away from the demon at all times. But on the other hand, Crowley was Dean's ally, and obviously powerful. And they could really use a powerful ally right about now.

Dean shook his head. "Whatever." With that, he unceremoniously dumped the contents out of the bowl, and turned to walk back to the camp. Merlin followed hesitantly, too busy processing recent events to strike up a conversation. He watched the underbrush pass underneath his feet, frowning.

For what had to be the thousandth time, he wished Gaius were here. He would know about the hex bag, the time travel, the demon- Merlin's eyes widened. _What of Gaius?_ As far as he would know, Merlin and Arthur had gone missing on a hunt in the woods. That's all the whole of _Camelot_ knew. Gwen had probably sent the knights searching for them, but they would find nothing. And if Morgana heard about Camelot's kingless situation. . .

But even if they were in a " _pocket universe_ ," Dean was still able to summon Crowley. Perhaps he could summon Kilgharrah? Although Crowley was able to vanish into thin air; dragons probably couldn't fly across dimensions. If he was lucky, Kilgharrah would get word of Arthur and his disappearance and look into it himself; there could be some dragon magic that could get them back home. Maybe.

As they approached the camp, Merlin could make out a figure leaning against a tree and blocking the entrance, his arms crossed and facing them. _Alexander?_ Dean paused and muttered something inaudible under his breath, but pressed on. Merlin swallowed.

Alexander straightened as they came closer, his eyes narrowing. "Where have you been?" he inquired. Despite his unaccusing tone, there was something in his eyes—something that seemed about to snap. Merlin felt immense relief when he realized the question was addressed to Dean

"Summoning demons," Dean replied sarcastically with a tight-lipped smile. Merlin glanced between them, taking an unconscious step back.

Alexander huffed. "Funny. We were wondering where you were when I found this letter." Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded note, holding it out to Dean. Dean slowly plucked it from his hands and unfolded it, skimming it with narrowed eyes before passing it to Merlin.

' _This morning, before the sun reaches its peak, your team is to follow the northern path from your camp. Further instructions will be given once you arrive_ ,' it read. Alexander cleared his throat.

"We agreed that Thor and I will scout ahead of the path at sunrise and report back what we find," Alexander said.

"I'll come with you," Dean said immediately. Alexander just shook his head.

" _Scouts_ don't consist of half of the force. If you wanted to come, you should've been here earlier."

Dean held out his hands. "Well I'm here now."

"I can see that. It doesn't change the fact that you missed out."

Merlin noticed Dean's jaw clench and his hand curl into a fist at his side. Dean opened his mouth, but Merlin quickly cut him off. "That's fine. We'll wait here, then." He offered Alexander a quick smile before turning to Dean, giving him a look that was both pleading and a warning at the same time.

Dean let out a long breath, his fist unclenching. He quickly composed himself, saying, "Have fun, boy scout," to Alexander, patting him on the back before he pushed past him into camp. Alexander stiffened, glaring daggers at Dean as he made his way to his bed. Merlin gave Alexander an apologetic shrug before entering himself.

To his surprise, Phil was the only one asleep, although Dean tried his best to fake it with his back to the group. Thor was eating another batch of rice, and waved at Merlin as he entered, cheeks full and looking somehow jolly. Merlin waved back. The Doctor was sat beside him, oblivious as he fiddled with a thin, silver device. Alexander stalked up to the group, seeming to hesitate before lowering himself onto one of the logs around the fire. Merlin turned between the fire and the bed before shrugging and joining the others.

Silence stretched between them, the only conversation between the crackling logs of the fire. The smoke billowed up into the sky, fading into the endless expanse of stars. When Merlin closed his eyes, he could imagine that this was just another mission; that this was just another forest the knights were camping out in, with the same species of crickets and owls that he'd been hearing all his life whispering in the trees. Across from him, the sound of the spoon hitting the bowl could be coming from Gwaine instead of Thor, whose bottomless stomach rivaled even a hungry Gwaine's. Or perhaps the slow breathing beside him came not from Alexander, but Percival, who was always fighting to stay awake when surrounded by the warmth of his friends and the fire.

A light breeze whisked a faceful of smoke in his direction, and he coughed, eyes snapping open, only for his face to recoil and scrunch back up immediately. As the smoke dispersed with the help of his waving hand, he felt two and a half pairs of eyes on him, shiny in the firelight. He'd shattered the silence, and this new one left a ringing in his ears. He wasn't in the forest with the knights; in fact, they were probably a world away, looking for him and Arthur right _now_ —or a thousand a half years ago, whichever it was. And here Merlin was, surrounded by strangers, unsure of what the morning would bring.

But as he looked around at the startled, yet unfamiliar faces, Merlin realized they were just as unsure as he was. Somehow, that was comforting.


End file.
